


Kirkwall

by dinosaurdragon



Series: The Way of the Story [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Animal Death, Anxiety, Blood Magic, Death, F/F, F/M, Kirkwall is fucked up, M/M, Mage Garrett, Mages and Templars, Not completely canon compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Rogue Malia, Shapeshifting, Torture, Trans Character, as in the city not the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 224,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurdragon/pseuds/dinosaurdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vir'era left Amaranthine behind. He left friends and safety. He left Nathaniel. All of this to find Anders, to help Hawke--whoever he or she may be--and help guide the world along a better path, if possible. To maybe get back to the eluvian and go home. He knows Kirkwall isn't safe for mages, and he knows that the Grey Wardens can offer only so much protection when he is far from Vigil's Keep.</p><p>He has to try, though. Even if he's forgetting, even if he's only one man. He's the only one who knows these things, and so he is the one who must bear the burden. Someone else might get it wrong.</p><p>Hey, he survived a fucking Archdemon. Surely he can survive Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Please Check Your Baggage Upon Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> aaaand welcome back! hope you're ready for this. i am. i fucking am. i'm using two hawkes because I wanted to. twice the fun. featuring both diplomatic and sarcastic options in spades bc those are the best. plus ser pounce-a-lot gets to be with anders still because he deserves it.
> 
> also, a final reminder, i may not be able to post for two weeks after this one. i have no idea right now. i'll be in south africa visiting family and i honestly dont know what my internet situation will be like. my cousins would have internet but im p sure we're visiting my aunts & uncles, who... probably don't. we'll see.

The mild nausea that I had experienced since leaving on that ship from Amaranthine to Kirkwall refused to abate as I climbed the impersonal stone steps of the Gallows. It’s not like it hadn’t been expected; this was one of the worst possible places for a mage outside the Circle to be, after all. Apostate I was not, but that didn’t mean they’d be friendly. My heart pounded in my throat hard enough that I swore I could taste blood.

Templars, Tranquil, and mages milled around. A few random people, too, who were like me: only just entering Kirkwall. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. The large statues of slaves loomed over me, and I forced myself not to stare or cower in their presence. This was not a kind place.

I paused only when I had reached the main courtyard. I wasn’t entirely sure where Meredith’s office was—inside, certainly, but where inside? I couldn’t quite remember.

My confusion must have shown on my face, because I was soon approached by an older Templar. He glanced at my staff, which was strapped to my back, and then at my armor. This was the reason, I told myself, that I had decided to wear the armor to Kirkwall. Templars would stop most mages, but with the armor, my existence would be accepted.

“Good afternoon, Warden,” the Templar greeted, nodding politely. “Is there some way I can assist you?”

As my stomach tightened worryingly, I forced my face into at least an approximation of a smile. “I need to see the Knight-Commander,” I told him, my voice managing to keep steady. “I have business in the city, and Warden-Commander Castor Cousland thought it best that, since I’m a mage, I tell the Knight-Commander of my presence.”

The Templar’s eyebrows went up, but he smiled and nodded in agreement. “The Warden-Commander made a wise decision, then.” Neither of us mentioned that it would be wiser to not send a mage to Kirkwall. “Follow me. I’ll show you to Commander Meredith’s office.”

I followed, more than happy to be led silently. Littlefoot’s nails clicked on the white stones. I paid attention to the route, not wanting to get lost on my way out. It was mostly straight-forward, thankfully. I shouldn’t have any issues finding my way back out.

The Templar paused in front of a plain-looking door and knocked. It somehow was not what I expected; I knew, of course, that in-game Meredith’s office door hadn’t been anything special, but I’d rather expected… Well, it didn’t matter. An authoritative voice bade us enter.

Subconsciously, I tightened my arms. Ser Pounce-a-Lot mewled a little complaint, and I quickly loosened my grip once more. The Templar gave me a funny look, but opened the door regardless. “A Grey Warden here to see you, Knight-Commander,” he said, and then he left me alone with Meredith Stannard.

She was shorter than I thought she’d be. Taller than me, still, but that was a given for almost all humans, anyway. Her hair was just as blonde, but her face had more age lines. She looked older than I expected—but, then again, seeing as I’d never considered her age beyond ‘adult,’ I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d expected.

I hovered in the doorway until she beckoned me in with a somewhat impatient wave of her hand. My feet almost caught on air as I hurried to follow her instructions. I bowed as well as I could with my baggage, arms over my chest. “Knight-Commander Meredith, I am Warden Vir’era Sabrae,” I announced with much more confidence than I felt, “here on behalf of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.”

Meredith raised one thin eyebrow at me, and I quickly pulled Castor’s letter from my pocket, handing it to her. “From Warden-Commander Castor Cousland.”

“I see,” she said. Even that small sentence was enough to reignite my nerves. She took the letter and skimmed it coolly, her face entirely impassive. I kept as still as I could manage, counting my breaths and trying to make myself as small as possible. Littlefoot sneezed. Meredith lifted her eyes to stare at him, but he wasn’t cowed. I was about to apologize when she smiled. “I do not often see mabari.”

Nervously, I smiled back. “I’ve had Littlefoot for as long as I’ve been a Grey Warden,” I said. “We met at Ostagar.”

She gave me an incredulous look. “You were at Ostagar?”

“Yes,” I answered, simply, but I wished I could take the words back, as she was scrutinizing me with renewed interest now.

“Then you must be one of the Heroes of the Fifth Blight.” I must have made an amusing face, because she chuckled. “Yes, even in Kirkwall we know about the Grey Wardens who survived that massacre and continued on to stop the Blight.”

“Of course.” I didn’t look at her. If she found it disrespectful, she said nothing.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room once again. When I chanced a glance, Meredith was reading the letter more closely, apparently more interested now that she knew I wasn’t just some random Warden mage being sent into her territory.

“Well,” she said, at last, folding the letter once again and handing it back to me, “this all seems in order. Keep that letter with you, and if anyone gives you trouble for being here, show it to them.”

“Thank you, ser.” I carefully tucked the letter back into my pocket. Feeling her eyes on me still, though, I warily met her gaze. “Is there anything else?”

She considered the question. “These maps you’ve been sent for. Does your Commander not have any copies?”

I hadn’t expected that question, and I blinked at her for a moment. “Not… not every copy we have is the same. The Wardens who—” I glanced away, unable to finish the thought. “There may be new information from the last mission the maps were used for. We can’t risk more Wardens right now.”

She hummed and nodded, accepting my answer. “Understandable. While you are in Kirkwall, I would appreciate it,” she began, and I knew it was not so much a suggestion as a demand, “if you would give me the occasional report on your progress. I doubt there is anything untoward, of course, but certainly you can understand my caution.”

I smiled thinly. She couldn’t have an unsupervised mage in her city, in other words. “Of course, ser. I can report to you monthly, if you like.”

“Monthly?” she asked, surprised. My grimace nearly surfaced when I realized what I’d said. “How long, exactly, do you expect to be here, Warden?”

Desperate lies tripped over themselves in my mind. “I—um, that is, I wouldn’t—we, um, we know the maps are-are-are in Kirkwall, but—but I, um. I was told, um.” I swallowed thickly. “I-it’s Warden business, ser. I… cannot give details.”

She hummed, staring at me as I shifted my weight around. I looked down, unwilling to meet her eyes, and Ser Pounce-a-Lot blinked up at me. He started purring when I blinked back.

“Very well,” Meredith said, eventually, after the silence had become awkward. “I shall have to trust the judgement of your Commander. Monthly reports will suffice, though if anything changes, I would like to be told immediately.”

“Thank you, ser,” I replied, quickly. “I’ll be certain to keep you updated.”

“Dismissed, Warden.”

I left with as much haste as I could manage, unwilling to allow even a moment long enough for her to take back any of what she’d said.

 

The meeting with Viscount Dumar went far more smoothly. He seemed almost eager for me to be on my way, and I swore I heard him mutter about not needing more troubles. I offered to send my reports to him, as well, but he’d waved the idea away like a foul odor, declaring that he trusted Meredith with that, and trusted the Wardens not to send a spy or anything of the sort.

Which left me in the middle of Hightown, feeling more or less lost, and with no idea what I should do next. Well, not so much; I had to find Anders. What I didn’t know was how I should go about it. Would he hide from me? Would he run if he saw me coming? I didn’t know. I didn’t know how he’d react to my presence at all—especially not so soon after…

I shook the thought from my head. Time enough to deal with the repercussions of his and Justice’s actions later, I suppose. I could figure out how to approach Anders as I made my way towards him. If I was lucky, it wouldn’t be particularly eventful, finding Darktown.

That decided, I walked decisively away from the Viscount’s Keep. Darktown was the sewers—or just above them, or something. Certainly, even somewhere as white-bread as Hightown would have an entrance somewhere. I just had to look.

Littlefoot was a great help. His sense of smell, once I told him where we were going, led us right to the unfortunate, damp Darktown. I almost wished it hadn’t.

 

To my surprise, Anders didn’t run when he saw me. He didn’t greet me, either. He just stared, as if I was some sort of illusion that would go away when he figured out how to see through it. But when I smiled at him as I moved closer, and when I pulled Ser Pounce-a-Lot up just enough that Anders could see his beloved cat, I proved myself to be real.

He started crying when I got in range, and he held Ser Pounce-a-Lot against his chest. People stared at us as we stood there. We must have made quite the picture: a tall, lanky human crying into a purring cat’s fur in front of a Dalish Grey Warden mage and a mabari. Quite the sight indeed.

“Why are you here?” he asked, eventually, when he could speak.

“To help,” I said, and I think he believed me. “However I can.”

He gave me a watery smile, and ushered me off to a little alcove. “There’s a lot of refugees here,” he murmured, and I nodded. “I’ve been healing them. The Chantry here doesn’t seem to like helping Fereldens much, and, well. I haven’t got much to lose.”

“Then I’ll do that, too.” He didn’t need to know that had been my plan the whole time.

“But—what about the Wardens?” He said the word in a whisper, scared, and then pursed his lips. “How did—how did you even find me?”

I shrugged. “Let me deal with the Wardens. I’m still one of them, but you don’t have to be, not if you don’t want to. As for how I found you…” I looked down at Littlefoot, who blinked seriously back at me, and then returned my eyes to Anders’. “I have a few secrets. I’ll tell you that one later, maybe. Just know that you’re safe with me.”

He frowned. He wanted to argue, I figured, so I cut him off preemptively: “I know about Justice, too. That’s—part of the secret I have. Don’t… don’t worry, Anders,” I said, and the words were painful to speak, “I’m not here to bring you back or anything. I came because I want to help.”

“I think I believe you,” he admitted. “Do the others know?”

“Only Castor, because I told him. I needed…” Anders winced, and I pressed on. “I needed him to let me find you. Besides. You’re not the first person we’ve known to live with a spirit like that.”

His eyes widened, and he whipped his head around, as if looking for anyone who was listening in. Maybe he was. It was Kirkwall, after all; a Templar could be around any corner. But when he saw only the dull-eyed gazes of refugees, who ignored us entirely now that we were not making a scene, he leaned in, voice dropped down to a whisper. “Who?”

“Wynne,” I answered.

“Wynne?” He scrunched up his face. “As in the Senior Enchanter? As in from the Circle in Ferelden? That Wynne?”

I smiled softly. He seemed to be over the fact that I’d found him, if only for now. He’d ask later, I was sure of that. He was a smart man, and smart men don’t often let mysteries continue on very long. “Yes. That Wynne.”

For the first time since he spotted me, I saw him slump into some version of relaxed, and we kept talking in low voices for a while. I told him about Wynne, about how she’d helped during the Blight and not once turned into a horrifying abomination. He told me about the refugees—he’d only been here a few days, but he wanted already to set up a clinic.

I supported the idea wholeheartedly. Maybe I could make things better just by being there for him. I could already hear the difference in him; I could hear Justice’s influence in his ideas. But they were good. They were kind. They were, perhaps, just.

 

And so, for nearly four months, Anders and I ran a clinic in Darktown to help anyone that called on us. If Meredith suspected my involvement, she said nothing. My monthly reports to her were short—they boiled down to sentence fragments, often, and were mostly lies. ‘Waiting to hear from contact. No new leads.’ Or maybe: ‘Got close this time. Went to Wounded Coast. Dead end.’

Since she had not asked that I deliver my reports in person, I simply gave them to a messenger. I never received any replies. That may have been, as I suspected, because I did not have any official location within Kirkwall. I was staying in Darktown, in the little section Anders had chosen for his clinic. Not many would look for a Grey Warden there.

But the Fereldens liked me. The elves more than the humans, what few of them had managed to escape. Even though Anders was the better healer, and honestly had a better bedside manner than me (I got too nervous, too quiet, too anxious), most times, the elves would come to me, first. They were all too happy to deliver my reports, even to such a place as the Gallows. Not, of course, that they refused payment for it.

At one point, three months in, one of them even delivered a letter to me—from Mia. I was almost ashamed for having not written to her since my arrival, and she scolded me for it. That is why, at the end of my fourth month in Kirkwall, I emerged for the first time in what felt like forever from the damp sewers into Kirkwall’s summer sun. I had been told, in no uncertain circumstances, that Mia would forgive me… if I delivered, personally, a letter from her to her brother. I couldn’t refuse.

I squinted in the sunlight. It’s not that I hadn’t left Darktown at all—I did, on occasion, venture out to fetch more food or bandages, or to harvest more elfroot for potions. But I hadn’t left in a while, and I rarely left when the sun was so high in the sky, and thus it blinded me momentarily as I left behind the musty, moldy place that had become a temporary home.

(I should really find someplace better, but I didn’t have the coin.)

Out of some kind of wariness of the Templars, I wore my armor. I hadn’t used it much since my arrival, because armor is not generally the sort of thing one wants to see in a clinic. It was looser than I remembered it, and I tried not to think of what that would mean in the future.

While some of the citizens of Kirkwall kept a considerable distance from me after seeing the staff on my back (perhaps because Maleficent was imposing; perhaps simply because it marked me as a mage), most were more curious about my armor, and their eyes lingered over the griffin on my chestplate. Grey Wardens were not common here. Not like in Amaranthine.

The ferryman waived the fee to take me to the Gallows, saying that Wardens didn’t get enough thanks as it was. I tried not to let my relief be too obvious; the coin Castor had given me was dwindling fast, and any I could spare was another meal.

In the overbright summer sunlight, the Gallows seemed a bit less frightening than in the early spring. The floors gleamed a pristine white, and I wondered just who had been tasked to clean them so well. Tranquil?

I gripped my staff’s strap a bit desperately as I walked further in. How was I meant to find Cullen? What would his reaction be? (Would he remember me?) My feet slowed from the purposeful stride I’d been using and began to shuffle as I glanced around. Maybe he’d be out in the courtyard. That would be easier, and with curly blonde hair, it shouldn’t be too—

“May I help you, ser?” a voice asked, and I jumped, turning in its direction. It was the same older knight who’d brought me to Meredith when I first arrived—or, at least, he looked similar enough.

“Um, yes, please,” I said, flashing a small, certainly nervous smile. I pulled Mia’s letter from my pocket. “I, um, I’m looking for Cullen Rutherford. H-his sister asked, um, asked th-that I—that I give this to him.”

He held out his hand. “I can take it from here, if you like.”

I shook my head. “N-no! I mean, thank you, but, you see, she—she asked that I give it to him, um, in person, and…”

“Of course, of course.” The Templar nodded, taking his hand back. “Follow me.”

I didn’t want to. Doubts and fears niggled and nibbled at me: certainly this Templar was going to bring me to the Circle permanently, and maybe he knew I was helping with Anders’ clinic, maybe he knew I wasn’t being completely honest in my reports to Meredith. Maybe this was all a mistake.

But I had little choice. I doubted he’d bring Cullen to me. At some point after being transferred to this Circle, Cullen was made Knight-Captain; that much I knew for certain. Was he already the Knight-Captain, or did that only happen later? I didn’t know, and I hurried to catch up to the Templar leading the way. (I should have asked his name, I thought.)

He may well have been a mind-reader, for as he opened the door to what seemed to be the Templars’ living quarters, he smiled and introduced himself. “By the way, I am Emeric. I didn’t catch your name the last time we met.”

“Vir’era,” I answered. I pulled the corners of my mouth up with great effort and managed a little smile for him. (Emeric, Emeric… Which was he? His name was familiar, but why? I couldn’t place it.)

“Well met.” We continued down a hall in silence, until Emeric paused at a door and knocked.

“One moment!” Cullen’s voice. I recognized it immediately.

Seconds later, the door opened, and there stood Cullen Rutherford. I couldn’t help but stare; he wasn’t wearing armor, but rather a tunic and pants. I hadn’t considered this. Some part of me had thought that maybe he lived in his armor, the way—the way—Cole, that was his name—the way Cole thought.

“Sorry to bother you on your day off, Knight-Captain,” Emeric said, saluting briefly. Cullen nodded, and Emeric continued, stepping to the side a bit to draw attention to me, “Warden Vir’era says he’s got a letter for you from your sister.”

But Cullen was just staring at me like he’d seen a ghost. “You—” he started, but cut himself off, face pale and jaw gaping. I shifted my weight uneasily. He remembered me, then. But was this a good thing? “…You’re alright?”

I blinked at him, then gave a little, bashful smile. “I’ve been better,” I answered, truthfully, “but I’m alive. As are you.”

“Thanks to you,” he said, and opened the door the entire way. “Come in, Vir’era—thank you, Emeric, you can return to your duties.” My name came out rounder when he said it than I was used to (most humans flattened it somehow), and I stepped in. There were two beds. One was immaculately made, the area around it holding little by way of personal items, and this was the one Cullen sat on.

I gingerly took a seat in the chair at the lone desk against the center of the back wall. Littlefoot settled beside me, sitting with picture-perfect posture, like maybe he was trying to intimidate Cullen. “Your sister asked me to bring you this,” I began, holding out Mia’s letter. “She worries about you.”

Cullen reached out a hesitant hand, like he was afraid that the paper would burst into flames at the slightest disturbance. “Thank you,” he murmured as he gripped the paper, staring in wonderment at his own name in Mia’s scrawl. “I—” He didn’t seem to know what to say. Not that I did.

We sat in silence for a moment while Cullen gathered his thoughts. “I didn’t know you knew her,” he said, at last, and glanced up at me. “Though…”

“We’ve never met in person.” I tugged on my sleeve and moved my legs to a new position. “I, um, the other Wardens and I—we were in Honnleath, at one point, after… And I’d heard you were from there, or-or that she was there, and your sister, maybe, I-I don’t, um—but, I mean, I sent her a letter. To let her know you were okay. Just in case. The, um. The Blight might have… and with all that happened at, um, at Kinloch Hold, I just… I just wanted to help. If I could.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course.” His eyes hadn’t left Mia’s letter. Not really. Maybe he couldn’t believe that it was really there, that he still… I don’t know. But I understood the feeling, in a way.

I stood up rapidly, not wanting to intrude on his introspection. “I—I should go. Um. W-Warden duties, and all that.” I waved one hand in the air a bit forcefully. Littlefoot stood with me, and we escaped before Cullen could respond.

I hadn’t expected that to be so nerve-wracking. Shows what I know. I barely made it back to Kirkwall proper before I transformed into a cat and hid in a dark corner of the walls for a while. I didn’t even make it back to Anders until the sun went down.

 

After that, I missed the comfort and safety of Vigil’s Keep so much that I became desperate. I had only Anders here, and he was so busy, working himself so hard taking care of the refugees and putting out feelers for local apostates when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Like he thought I would disapprove.

He needed help. I needed help. I couldn’t take care of him, not the way he needed. I could barely take care of myself.

So I began to spend hours out looking for Hawke. It had been about a year, I thought, since Lothering burned. By now, the Hawke siblings and Aveline should be getting out of whatever contract they’d taken for entrance to Kirkwall. I should be able to find them and—

And what?

Fuck knows. Every now and then, that thought would come to mind, but I had no fucking clue. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. Maybe burn it, too.

As it turns out, about two weeks later, I came across Varric. I’d decided to stake out the Hanged Man pub, but because I could not afford a room and did not particularly savor the idea of effectively drinking on the job, I simply sat outside as a cat, with Littlefoot beside me. No one paid us much mind.

At least, not until Varric. He left the Hanged Man, whistling as he walked, and paused when he saw Littlefoot. He blinked at the dog, and asked, “Peaches?”

Littlefoot cocked his head to the side. Varric frowned. “Nah, didn’t think so.” He glanced around. “Where’s your person, then?”

Littlefoot happily turned his gaze to me, and this time Varric laughed. “Really?” At Littlefoot’s answering snuffle, the dwarf shrugged. “Alright, alright.” I was about to change back, though I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, when Varric waved a hand and began to leave. “Keep Mittens safe, then.”

I almost let him leave. Almost, but not quite—my curiosity got the better of me, and I hopped up to follow him. It was easier when I was this small, as no one gave a rat’s ass about some random city cat. (Littlefoot got a couple funny looks, but there were enough mabari in Kirkwall that they mostly seemed just to wonder who he was following.)

Keeping my distance, in a vain hope that Varric wouldn’t notice me, I tailed him out of Lowtown, through Hightown, right to the Viscount’s Keep. He loitered there, whistling and grinning at anyone who greeted him. I glanced around, trying to see what he was waiting for.

It was, of course, Hawke. But, and perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, there was not just one Hawke. There were two, plus Carver, who counts in a technical sort of way. Fenris trailed behind them, seeming… mildly grumpy, but what did I expect?

“Varric!” the female Hawke exclaimed, throwing her arms out as they walked towards the dwarf. “You made it!”

“’Course I did, Hawke,” Varric answered, smiling easily. I wondered if he called both her and the male Hawke just that, Hawke, or if he’d come up with a nickname for everyone. “And you’ve got Broody and Junior with you. This’ll be fun, huh?”

Female Hawke shrugged amicably, though I did notice a bright grin sent in Fenris’ direction. “Can’t be too careful with Wardens or mages, right?” Male Hawke shifted, like she’d said something wrong, but I couldn’t see his face, just the way he crossed his arms.

Varric chuckled. “You know she doesn’t mean you, Big Bird.” I snorted at the nickname, though it came out more like a sneeze. Littlefoot sneezed in agreement, and then Varric’s clever eyes were on us. But he said nothing. “So. You guys ready to find these mysterious healers that had everyone at the Ferelden shop all in a tizzy?”

Carver snorted this time. “If we can even find them. Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, they are Grey Wardens, right? Who’s to say they’ll even help us?”

“Let’s call it a hunch,” Varric said, smooth as silk. He was still watching me. He knew I’d followed him, which meant he knew there was something different about me. “Say, Hawke, you didn’t bring Peaches along, did you?”

Hawke tilted her head. “Nope. I left her with Mother. Gamlen was out, and I wanted to be sure she’d be safe. Why?”

Varric nodded his head to myself and Littlefoot. “We’ve got a couple admirers, then.”

“A mabari and a cat?” Fenris asked, obviously judging.

Varric turned his head with a smirk so bright I swore he was glowing. “See, I saw Fido outside the Hanged Man as I was leaving, right? And Mittens here was there, too.”

“Perhaps they are your admirers then, dwarf.”

Varric shrugged amicably. “Perhaps.”

I couldn’t change back in a place this crowded. It would frighten people. I tried to do as little magic in public spaces as I could. But Varric knew something was up, and it sounded like they were going to be looking for Anders’ clinic anyways. Like they were going to look for both myself and Anders.

And I knew they’d succeed, eventually, so why wait? I stood and walked right up to them. Every pair of eyebrows raised. I couldn’t speak, but I meowed, in a vain hope that they would understand I was trying to help them. Or, at least, that I wanted their attention.

Varric chuckled again. “Hello to you, too, Mittens.”

I mewed again and began to walk to one of Darktown’s entrances. When I didn’t hear them following after a few steps, I turned at stared pointedly at them, then meowed again, louder.

“I think Mittens wans us to follow,” male Hawke said.

“It’s a cat,” Fenris argued. “All it wants is attention.”

“Yeah, but a cat with a mabari?” Varric added, and I meowed again, yet louder. “C’mon, Broody. What’ve we got to lose?”

Fenris huffed. “Dignity.”

“I never had much of that anyway,” female Hawke said, and then she gestured my way. “Let’s find out what the suspicious kitten wants, hm? Maybe we’ll get some treasure from it all.”

I meowed, the loudest yet, and Varric laughed. “Come on, then, before Mittens gets angry.”


	2. Oh my God, Malia

Varric realized where I was leading them by the time we crossed into Darktown, and announced as much to the rest of the company. Carver didn’t believe him, and Fenris huffed, but by the time we were drawing near, even they seemed to understand that Varric had, in fact, spoken the truth.

I pawed open one of the clinic's doors, and let Littlefoot push it the rest of the way. Anders glanced up. “Vee!” he said, when he saw me. “There you are! I was starting to get worried.”

“Is that Mittens’ real name?” Varric asked, casually sauntering in and looking around.

Anders went on the defensive immediately, backing up towards his staff, which leaned against a pillar. He glanced at me and ignored the question. “Vir’era, what have you done?”

Before anyone could make a snarky retort about cats not replying, I transformed back, figuring now as good a time as any. There were several exclamations from Hawke and company (“Andraste’s ass!” being the loudest), but I answered Anders before addressing them. “Don’t worry. They’re friendly.” I hadn’t yet told him that I knew things to come, so I… didn’t say how I knew. I waved them further in. “I am sorry for the deception, though.”

“It’s fine,” ‘Big Bird’ answered. “We just… weren’t expecting that.”

“Say, you wouldn’t know how to change into a dragon, would you?” Hawke asked, looking at me consideringly.

I shook my head. “No.” I did not think further discussion of that would be particularly wise, so I changed the subject. “Um, but, you were looking for us, right?”

“Looking for—Vir’era!” Anders exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “You can’t just lead anyone here who’s looking! What if the Templars sent them? Your Warden pass might be revoked, then, and who knows what the Knight-Commander would do to us?”

I winced, but Big Bird jumped in with his hands up. “Hey, don’t worry, we’re not here to hurt you or anything.” He gave a lopsided grin and lit a small flame in one hand, putting it out quickly. “I’d say we’re rather on the same team, alright?”

Anders huffed and pursed his lips, but didn’t protest. “So why are you here, then? You sound Fereldan enough, but it doesn’t look like any of you are sick or injured.” He started examining them closer. “You also don’t much look like the sort that generally needs our help.”

“Not grimy enough?” Hawke asked, and got an elbow from her brother for it.

Anders just raised an eyebrow. “Something like that.”

“Truth is, Blondie, we’re here because we heard you were Grey Wardens, or that you used to be,” Varric said.

“We’re going on an expedition to the Deep Roads soon,” Big Bird continued (and I was getting tired of not knowing his name, but hadn’t yet had a chance to ask), “and we heard you have maps that could help us.”

“Right.” Anders sighed and gave me a rather baleful look. I pretended not to notice. “Well, I’m done with the Wardens. I do have the maps, though…” He started to think.

“I didn’t know you could leave the Wardens,” Hawke said. “I thought it was an ‘until death do us part’ sort of thing.”

Anders snorted. “Normally you’d be right. Turns out, they don’t do much to keep you, though.” Lie. “I left and… they haven’t asked me back. Not that I’d go back. I can’t.” These words were for me, and I nodded. I knew he wouldn’t return. That wasn’t why I was here. (It had taken time for him to believe it, but he seemed to trust me.) “No reason for me to, either. I have my life and my cat, even if the whole tainted by darkspawn and recurring nightmares about the Archdemon make it hard to be really normal.”

Hawke squinted her eyes at him. “Right. Of course.”

“I’m… guessing you don’t mean that cat, do you?” Big Bird asked, jerking his head in my direction. Anders laughed, and for a second it sounded like a trumpet again. He didn’t laugh much nowadays.

“No! Vir’era’s not a cat, he’s an elf. Obviously.” Still snickering a bit, he pointed at one of the cots we’d wrangled up, where a particular orange tabby was curled up. “That’s my cat, Ser Pounce-a-Lot.”

“You named your cat Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” Hawke asked.

“I’ll have you know he’s a very smart cat!” Anders protested. “Hated the Deep Roads almost as much as Vir’era here, in fact.” I winced. It wasn’t something I was proud of, being so frightened of those caves. “He almost got torn in half once. That was the last time I brought him down, but he swatted the nose of the genlock. Drew blood, too.” He gave a dopey little smile to the sleeping cat.

I shook my head, and the conversation moved on when Hawke said, “So, the maps. You don’t need them anymore, right? I’ll even pay you for them.”

Anders looked at me again, like he was expecting me to say something, but I had nothing to add. “Well, it’s true I don’t need them. But I really shouldn’t just give them away, not even for coin…” He paced for a moment. “How about this: a favor for a favor.”

“Sounds good to me,” Big Bird answered, before his sister could. She raised an eyebrow at him. So did Anders, for that matter.

“So quick to agree? You don’t even know the terms. What if I’d asked for the Knight-Commander’s head on a stake?” he asked. I think he was teasing, his voice lighter than it had been recently.

“Yes, Garrett. What if he wanted that?” Hawke hip-checked Big Bird—Garrett, precisely the default name—and crossed her arms.

Garrett shrugged, peering at Anders. “ _Is_ that what you’re asking?”

“No,” Anders replied, lightly. “But it would be nice. I could put her in front of the door. A nice little warning-effigy.” I couldn’t help gaping; I was pretty certain that was not in the script, and I didn’t know precisely how to react. What the hell had changed that line?

(It was me, somehow, I figured. Even if I hadn’t specifically done it. It was my presence. Creators curse it all.)

There was silence for a beat, and then Anders coughed. “Right, well, that’s not what I want.” He glanced to me, but pretended like he hadn’t when he addressed the Hawkes and company once more. “There’s a reason I came to Kirkwall. I have a … friend, in the Circle. His name’s Karl. We’ve been exchanging letters, and he’s told me how bad it is. I came here to help him, and he wrote every week… but then the letters just stopped coming.”

“You think the Templars found out,” Garrett concluded.

Anders nodded. “He’s been telling me what they’ve done. It’s terrible. I’ve always heard rumors, but to get a first-hand account…” He sighed heavily. “It seems there’s another mage made Tranquil each week, against their will, for minor infractions. Over eleven have been made Tranquil since last year.”

I stopped listening as he continued to explain. I didn’t need to hear the rest; I knew what he was asking, and I knew how it would end: horribly. How could I have forgotten? Or had I deliberately let myself believe that maybe, maybe it would be different now? I was stupid for that. I wasn’t nearly important enough to change something so central to Anders’ motivations.

Tears threatened to well up, pushing against the backs of my eyes. I swallowed them down, blinked forcefully and looked away from Anders. I-I needed to tell him. But how? These thoughts chased each other around my head as Anders continued to speak, as Hawke and Garrett asked for details and made the agreement. I thought I heard Fenris make a scathing comment, but maybe I was wrong.

I hid my face in my hands until the doors shut again, and then I peeked between fingers at Anders’ back. He was determined, I knew. And for good reason; were I in his shoes, I’d likely at least want to try the same thing.

But I knew things he didn’t. I knew Karl was already Tranquil, that this was nothing more than a trap to lure Anders in, to capture another apostate. He deserved to know.

“Anders,” I whispered, unable to make myself speak any louder. He turned, brows furrowed and eyes worried when he saw how pitiful I must have looked. “I… There’s something you should know.” How many times have I said those words? I could only hope he’d heed my warning, like Castor had, like Theron had, like all the Wardens eventually had come to trust me, for whatever godforsaken reason.

“What is it?” he asked, coming close and putting a hand on my arm. He wanted to comfort me. I was the one who should be comforting him.

I opened my mouth and choked on my words. “I—” He rubbed my arm encouragingly. Littlefoot nosed my hand, and I clenched his fur. “I have… There’s reason to believe that—that—Anders, I’m so sorry, ir abelas, ir abelas—Karl is… He’s already been made Tranquil. This is a trap.”

My last words were no more than breath shaped roughly to words, no sound brought from my vocal chords. They were quieter than a cat’s footstep, but the room was yet more silent, and Anders jerked back when I said the words. “No,” he told me. “No, you’re wrong. You have to be.”

His words sliced my soul and I flinched, turning my eyes down to my lap, to the ground, anywhere but him. “Ir abelas, Anders, creators, I wish I was wrong—”

“How could you even know?” he demanded. “I didn’t tell you about Karl!” He started pacing, and my heart pounded in time with his footsteps. “You wouldn’t have known to look the, what, two times you went to the Gallows? Unless that’s where you’ve disappeared off to each day, unless you’ve been counting and naming each Tranquil—” He shook his head violently.

“I’m not, I didn’t, Anders, please, please—”

“You can’t know that!” He whirled on me, and his eyes were glowing. I scrambled back. What had I done? This was a mistake, a fool’s choice, I knew he—this—Mythal have mercy! “It’s not something you’d do!”

I nearly fell off the small cot I’d sat on in my haste to back away, and I prayed that I had not just destroyed something, that I had not caused some irreparable change, some damned butterfly effect. “It’s not!” I cried, and words left my mouth without permission, without filter. “I know the same way—it’s how I knew about you and Justice, how I knew you’d be in Kirkwall, how I knew—how I knew—the Archdemon, Morrigan, eluvians, Haven, the Landsmeet—and it’s how I know of Corypheus, the Inquisition, Cole—I—fuck, no, I can’t…”

The words I said came back to me, and I wished I could take them all back, because I hadn’t told anyone, not really, since the beginning, since I told Theron, and I didn’t know what Anders would do, how he’d react to hearing—

“Liar!” The word pushed me further back, and this time I did fall, my ass hitting the floor of the clinic painfully. “Those words mean nothing!”

I didn’t know what to do. I had nowhere to go; the clinic was one large room, and we even slept on the cots—this was supposed to be my safe space, but I had just skillfully destroyed that with a handful of thoughtless words and one monumentally idiotic idea. In the rational part of my mind, I knew Anders would never hurt me—not intentionally, not when he had control—and that even Justice seemed to still recognize who I was, however warped he had become from the merge—but I was not thinking rationally.

I became a cat and I bolted for the doors. Anders didn’t try to stop me.

 

Littlefoot followed me. His presence reassured me somewhat; even if I didn’t know where I was going, or why, I knew I was safe with him. He would protect me when I couldn’t think enough to protect myself.

We wove through the Kirkwall citizens and wandered. I paid little attention to what direction I headed, and less to what it might lead to. Perhaps it was a small miracle, then, that after I wiggled into a small hole and all but collapsed from exhaustion, no one threatened me. Not in any serious way.

When I awoke, it was dark already. I slinked back to the clinic, feeling slightly ashamed that I’d left in such a manner, even if I didn’t know how else to react to Anders’ anger. There were people who depended on us to keep them hale and whole, after all. It was selfish to forget that. (Though, I allowed, perhaps it was not bad to leave until Anders and I were both calmer.)

Anders wasn’t at the clinic when I arrived. Ser Pounce-a-Lot guarded the door alone, and he chirped when he saw me. I rubbed against him in greeting, and even Littlefoot got a little friendly rub.

I didn’t have to wonder where Anders was. I knew, and maybe I should be there, too, but I didn’t think he’d want me around while he dealt with that. Plus, I didn’t know if I could reasonably explain things to him without revealing more than I wanted to Hawke and Garrett if Anders were to ask me there, in plain view, how I’d known.

Instead, I became an elf again and sat on my cot, awaiting Anders’ return. In my mind, I went over the old web of lies I’d woven to make myself more real here, to protect myself and to avoid undue attention. In it, I was a Second from Clan Sabrae, with a mysterious magical gift of foresight. It felt natural now.

But I knew there were holes. Clan Sabrae was here, on Sundermount; it would be only too easy to reveal I had not truly been their Second. I just had to hope that such a thing wouldn’t come to pass.

The door scratched against the dirty stone floor, and I watched silently from my corner as Anders stumbled in. He looked haunted, and I couldn’t blame him. Hawke and company were nowhere to be seen—yet. Perhaps they would be here soon.

If Anders expected to have company, he made no indication of it. He walked straight to me, having sighted me immediately. “How?” he asked, voice hoarse the way it usually was after a… scene with Justice.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. It was the truth. It just wasn’t necessarily the answer to his question. How did I know, he wanted to ask, but could not say the words, and I knew precisely that answer, but could not tell it to him. So instead, I answered a different how, the ‘how are you here’ one, and the answer was the most fitting. “I’m sorry.”

“You got it all right,” he said. “It was a trap. Karl was already Tranquil.” He stared at me like he was starting to put the pieces together. “You knew where I was. About Justice.” I nodded. “I thought—I thought it was because you’re clever and quiet. Sometimes I don’t even notice when you’re in the room. I thought, maybe—maybe you’d overheard me planning with Justice. Maybe you just put two and two together. But you didn’t, did you?”

“No,” I answered. Both of us spoke quietly, two murmuring apostates discussing things the Chantry would kill us for.

“Then how?” he pressed, leaning forward just a bit. There was less than a foot of distance between us, yet I felt no fear. Not like earlier. Maybe I was just too tired for it.

I opened my mouth, but the explanation I wanted to give did not come. He was smart, observant. He had to be; that’s the only way he’d managed to survive so many escapes from the Circle of Magi. And my web of lies? However many of them had become as much as truth to me, they weighed heavily, a chrysalis becoming a coffin.

Anders put a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone.”

I believed him.

 

I could not tell him everything. I could not let him read my journal. But I told him enough. He knew I wasn’t from Clan Sabrae. He knew I had knowledge of possibilities and of a few certainties for the future, and that I kept them safe. I didn’t tell him about the journal. I didn’t want to tempt, to taunt. I just wanted to tell the truth. If he believed me that I wasn’t from Thedas… Well, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he thought I was like him: a spirit and a person, combined and confused to the point of having convinced myself of the weirder parts.

He swore that he would tell no one.

 

When Hawke and her brothers came back the next day to speak with Anders, I kept back and tried not to listen in. No one had come into the clinic yet (it was still early), so it was a bit difficult, but I made it work. Mostly. I knew what they’d be talking about, anyway. I didn’t need to hear the explanation of Justice, to hear their questions.

So, instead, I made more health potions. Our stock was running low, especially after the small cave-in last month in one of the less stable parts of Darktown. Not that we had a lot of elfroot right now, either. I’d need to find some way to harvest more. It grew like a weed outside the city, I knew. Maybe it was time to take a little trip out.

“Vir’era?” someone asked. I jumped nearly out of my skin, having not expected to be approached at all. When I turned, Hawke laughed lightly, hands raised. Carver stood a bit behind her, looking mostly disinterested. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

My face heated, and I righted the flask I’d knocked over in my surprise. “I-it’s okay.”

“I’m Malia Hawke,” she said, and when I looked back up at her, she was smiling. Malia, huh. Not Marian. I’d stopped wondering if there were a pattern to the names that changed and the ones that didn’t. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be Dalish, would you?”

“I am,” I answered, slowly. “Why?”

She clapped her hands together and ignored my question. “Brilliant! Garrett! Stop flirting and get over here!” I looked over to where Garrett was still talking with Anders, both men smiling and both a bit embarrassed at Malia’s words, and I snickered. Anders pouted at me for it.

“What is it, dear sister?” Garrett asked as he walked to us, sounding entirely put-upon. Carver snorted.

“I was right! You owe me one sovereign.”

“I never agreed to that bet,” he said, even as he handed over a gold piece, but he soon turned his gaze to me. “Did she say why we wanted to know if you’re Dalish?” I shook my head, and he sighed. “Dammit, Malia, you can’t just ask people if they’re Dalish.”

She shrugged at him. “Too late.”

He rolled his eyes. She stuck out her tongue. Carver groaned. I wondered if this were a frequent occurrence. When I looked at Carver, he rolled his eyes, and I figured it was. “Can we please get back to the point of this all?” Carver asked.

“Why, little brother, one would almost think you wanted to leave!” Malia answered, a hand over her heart and voice dramatic. He gave her a flat look in response, and she laughed.

Garrett waved a hand dismissively at them both and turned back to me. “My siblings and I have… something to deliver to someone named Marethari in the clan that’s on Sundermount. Since you’re Dalish, and we’re pretty obviously very human, we were hoping you might escort us. We don’t want to cause any problems, you see, and we figured they might be more receptive if we didn’t just tramp around looking for them, ah, as we are.”

I nodded. It made sense. “I can understand your concerns. My people are not often welcoming to humans, though not without reason.”

Malia laughed loudly. “To be honest, if I were Dalish, I’d probably do the same. Or maybe worse.” My eyes widened at her bold declaration, and she grinned cheekily at me. “What? I might be human, but even I know elves have had a rough time of it, to say the least.”

“That’s also how she feels about apostates,” Carver confided. “I’m surprised she never killed any Templars in Lothering.” Malia didn’t react, continuing to smile, and I realized they were waiting on my response: would I accompany them to the top of Sundermount to meet with the Keeper?

“I’ll go with you,” I said. Of course I would. I should have gone to the clan sooner, in all honesty, but… I hadn’t been able to bring myself to.

“Wonderful!” Garrett beamed at me like I’d just made his day. It was amazing how someone so beardy could seem so… excitable. “We were hoping to leave, ah, this afternoon, actually. Does that work for you?”

I looked over to Anders, who was listening in with absolutely no shame. “Think you could hold down the fort?” I asked.

“Oh, I think I’ll manage,” he answered. “Besides, didn’t you tell me just last night that you were wanting to visit the clan? It’s a perfect opportunity.”

 

And so it was. Of course, the hike up Sundermount wasn’t anything to scoff at, either. We left after lunch, and still only made it halfway by nightfall. I was frankly exhausted; it had been months since I’d done anything nearly so strenuous. In my defense, Garrett seemed tired, too, and from the way he leaned on his own staff (which he’d only taken out when we left the city), I wasn’t going to be judged.

Plus, I got to meet Peaches, the Hawke family mabari. She was a gorgeous dog, and did, in fact, look quite a lot like Littlefoot, so I could see how Varric made that mistake. While Peaches had bonded to Malia, she was loved so well by the rest of the family that it was hard to tell. She listened to all of them readily. She and Littlefoot got along very well.

When we made camp in a small clearing just off the path, Varric took the chance to ask me where I’d come from.

“Ferelden,” I answered. “We—the Grey Wardens, that is—we have an arling there, now. Amaranthine. That’s where I was before Castor—um, Warden-Commander Castor Cousland—asked me to… Well, come here.”

He hummed, casually cleaning Bianca, even though the crossbow was already immaculate. I didn’t see as much as a speck of dust on her. Probably because he cleaned her so much. “But what about before that?” he asked.

“Before that?” I parroted, blinking at him.

“Yeah, before Amaranthine,” he said. “Come on, you’ve gotta have a good story.”

I tilted my head at him. “Why?” I did, but…

He looked pointedly at Maleficent. “People don’t just get fancy staves like that without a good story. I would know.” He patted Bianca, making sure I saw him do so.

“Oh,” I said, and looked at Maleficent as well.

“Well?” By now, everyone was listening. It was just the Hawkes and Varric, but they watched me intently enough for a small crowd.

“She was a gift.” I gently stroked Maleficent’s neck. “From Alistair and Capella. I call her Maleficent.”

“Hold on,” Garrett said, leaning close. “Alistair and Capella? As in the new Fereldan King and Queen? That Alistair and Capella?”

I smiled, quietly enjoying their surprise. “Yes. They’re my friends.”

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric muttered. “You’re one of the heroes of the Fifth Blight, aren’t you?”

“Um.” That’s not quite where I’d anticipated this going. Hopefully they wouldn’t expect too much of me now. “Well, yes. I, uh, I’m one o-of the Grey Wardens from, um, from Ostagar an-and I did travel with them, um, and… I did fight th-the Archdemon, um…”

Varric chuckled. Carver and Malia stared at me. Garrett stared at Maleficent. Littlefoot and Peaches panted happily by the fire. Eventually, Malia broke the silence. “So, how’d you escape, then? Carver and I barely got out with our arses intact.”

I wondered if I should tell them the truth. Perhaps not. “We went to the Tower of Ishal. We lit the beacon. But, um, then the darkspawn swarmed us, a-and I can’t remember much else. I… I blacked out, and when I woke up again, I was in the Korcari Wilds, with, um, the rest of the new Wardens.” Close enough.

She nodded, accepting this. Whatever she filled in the blanks with, she didn’t ask for more information; however, Varric was far from satisfied, and asked me a great number of questions pertaining to my experiences during the Fifth Blight. I told him as much as I could, as much as I felt comfortable telling, and he seemed to accept that. His curiosity was all but tangible, but he allowed me my space.

By the time we fell asleep, the moon was already quite high in the sky. It was full and bright, and I sent a quiet prayer to the gods that this was a good omen.

 

Carver was an inexplicably morning person. I couldn’t say I was much better; on the road, I tended to wake with the sun, unable to sleep any longer when I felt its warmth on my skin. But Carver—Carver awoke long before even that. He was quiet, at least, and didn’t disturb anyone while he prepared for the day. He even managed to scrounge up a small breakfast for everyone by the time I was fully awake.

He didn’t speak much to me, choosing instead to nod awkwardly and silently offer the food. When I thanked him, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. It got better when Malia and Varric each woke up, easing the tension like it wasn’t even there. Malia then took it upon herself to wake Garrett, who I was told “could sleep through the end of the world, probably.”

So, of course, I had to watch and see how she woke him. I was mildly disappointed with the simplicity, if not the result. Malia had Peaches give Garrett large, slobbery dog kisses—and since Garrett wasn’t awake to keep her from doing otherwise, Peaches also took the opportunity to stick her tongue into his ear noisily and insistently.

Garrett howled almost immediately, flailing in his bedroll and sending Peaches tumbling away. She didn’t seem bothered at all; in fact, she wiggled right back up and started licking Garrett even more. Malia cackled, and I could hear even Carver snickering. They felt like real siblings. I wondered if Bethany would have laughed, too. My throat closed, and I looked away, not wanting to break the happiness with my own ridiculous melancholy.

I hadn’t even known her, after all. I had no reason to feel so upset over her death.

No one drew attention to my silence. I hoped that meant they hadn’t noticed.

 

It took about half the morning to reach the Dalish camp. When we drew nearer, I took the lead. I saw a few small traps laid out to the side of the path—not meant for those who come with honest intentions, but for those that would hurt the clan. Or for food, whichever happened to get caught. If I hadn’t been taught how to spot traps, I doubted I’d’ve seen them, and I was certain that at least Varric knew they were there.

Two small stone statues of Fen’Harel marked out the entrance to the space Clan Sabrae had claimed, and that is where we were met by two hunters. Both frowned at us, eyes flicking from me to the others, and then to my uniform. They didn’t raise their weapons at us, but they weren’t what I’d call friendly, either.

“Halt!” the male hunter said, holding up one hand. “What business does a Grey Warden have here?”

The female hunter stared at my face with narrowed eyes as I answered. “I am not here as a Grey Warden, but as an escort. The family Hawke has come to see Keeper Marethari.”

“I see,” said the man. “And what is your name, then?”

“I—” I stopped just short of declaring myself to be Vir’era Sabrae. They didn’t know I’d taken their clan name for my own. It would only seem weird to them, and possibly suspicious. “I am Vir’era.”

The woman’s face went pale, putting her vallaslin in stark relief against her skin. Before she could say more, Garrett came next to me and spoke. “We don’t mean to harm anyone. We just… have a delivery. That’s all.”

The man nodded. “Mheganni,” he said, addressing the woman, “please lead them to Keeper Marethari.” He looked at Garrett. “She’s been expecting you.”

“Always a shem,” Mheganni muttered, shaking her head. But she seemed resigned, not angry, as she turned and brought us further into the camp. We passed a few aravels, and I saw curious faces watch us. Many eyes caught on my Warden armor and stuck.

“Shem?” Malia asked. “What does that mean?”

Mheganni seemed unlikely to answer, so I did, instead. “It’s short for ‘shemlen,’ the word for human in our language.”

Malia hummed. “So what do you call yourselves, then?”

“Elvhen.”

“Oh. Well, that was disappointing. Can I pretend it’s something more interesting?” she asked. Mheganni took the time to send an extremely unimpressed look her way, and I winced at the thought. She couldn’t know how rude that honestly sounded, but still. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then.”

Keeper Marethari, when we reached her, seemed as surprised to see me as she wasn’t to see the Hawke family (and Varric). “The family Hawke and Vir’era,” Mheganni said by way of introduction.

“Andaran atish’an,” Marethari said, but no more. She looked over our faces, and I figured she was considering her next words.

“Keeper,” I said, and nodded respectfully. “I-I’m glad to see you again. I don’t think I properly thanked you back then…”

“Think nothing of it, da’len.” She smiled at me now, a genuine smile. “I did only what was right, and would do it again.” Her face grew sad, momentarily, and she seemed hesitant to ask her next question. “Is Theron…?”

“He is well,” I assured her. “He went to Antiva to get away from the shemlen in Denerim. He writes to me sometimes. I can send a letter for you, if you like.”

Mheganni took hold of my arm then, leaning very close. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, please.” I nodded, and she seemed satisfied for the moment.

Marethari returned her attention to the Hawkes. “Thank you for coming all this way,” she said, “and for being aware that humans are not always greeted warmly by my people.”

“Right.” Garrett didn’t seem inclined to ask more about how I knew the Keeper, but since I’d spoken so much about Theron last night, he’d probably connected at least some of the dots. He pulled out Flemeth’s amulet instead, making to hand it to Marethari. “Er, I was told to bring you this amulet.”

She accepted it and beckoned the mage closer. “Indeed. Let me look at you… There is truth in your face, and Vir’era seems to think you are trustworthy. A rare thing in a human. Tell me how this burden fell to you, child.”

Malia snickered at the word. I didn’t know if Garrett really looked all that much like a child— _so beardy_ —but I wasn’t about to question the Keeper’s words. He ignored his sister in favor of answering Marethari. A wise decision. “The… owner of this amulet saved my family from the Blight. In return, we agreed to deliver it to you.”

“I honor you for coming to me,” she said, nodding like she’d expected such an answer. “But I’m afraid your part in this is not done yet.” Malia sighed, and Carver elbowed her. “The amulet must be taken to an altar at the top of the mountain, and given a Dalish rite for the departed. Then… return the amulet to me. Do this, and your debt will be repaid.”

Malia leaned around her brother. “So… are you going to teach us this rite for the departed, or…?”

Marethari shook her head briefly. “I will send my First with you. She will see to it the ritual is done.” I couldn’t help my excitement at seeing Merrill. She was so sweet, so earnest… I wanted very badly to be her friend. “And… when it is complete…” Her words came slowly, as though she was reluctant to say them at all. “I must ask that you take her, when you go.”

“What’s a First?” Malia asked. She seemed to be the more inquisitive one.

“Your people might call her my apprentice,” Marethari explained. “Vir’era was once a First.” She gestured at me, as if to tell them to ask me if they wanted to know more.

“If you want us to bring her,” Garrett said, “I think we can manage that.” Malia shrugged, accepting it.

“It is not what I want, but it is what she wants.” Marethari sighed. “Give me a moment to speak with her, and then she will take you on the trail that leads up the mountain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey! i'm back in town & back to updating as normal. that said, this month is going to be crazy fuckin busy for me (work should be busy starting next week and i'm taking a tefl course on the weekends) so while i am far enough ahead in the chapters that it _shouldn't_ have a significant impact, i've also run into a plot tangle i need to smooth out so i wanted to warn you just in case something comes up and i need to skip another week of regular updates. [if that does happen, which it shouldn't, i will make certain to put up one or two things in missing moments that week, though]


	3. Ir Abelas, Lethallan

Merrill came over to us soon after that, all smiles and sunshine. I could still feel Mheganni’s gaze on me, but she didn’t follow or comment. “Aneth ara,” Merrill said. “You must be the ones the Keeper told me about.” She frowned. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask your name—unless… it’s not rude to ask a human their name, is it? I’m Merrill! Which you probably knew already. I’m rambling, sorry.”

Malia laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind. You can call me Malia. The big one is Carver, the less big one is Garrett, the dwarf is Varric, and the other Dalish is our friend, Vir’era.”

“Vir’era?” she asked, and her gaze fixed on me. “Oh, I thought it was you! The Keeper didn’t say, but you looked so familiar. I’m glad you’re alright.” Her smile could make flowers bloom.

“Me too,” I said, then backtracked. “Ah, I mean, I’m glad that you’re alright, too, not—though I am glad that I’m alright. Um.”

She just kept on smiling and nodded along, completely undisturbed by my poorly-thought-out sentence. “Have you all been in the Free Marches long? Do you like it here?”

I happily let the Hawkes take over the conversation. “Oh,” Malia said, drawing out the word, “it could be worse, I suppose.”

Garrett rolled his eyes at her. “Ignore her, she’s being sarcastic again. We’ve been here a year now. It’s not a bad place to start over.”

“I’m glad you told me that was sarcasm,” Merrill said, entirely earnest. “I’m not very experienced with your kind. Anyway, we should go. Your task is for Asha’bellanar. It’s not wise to make her wait.”

We began to walk, Merrill leading the way. As we passed a grouping of stones, one of the hunters approached. “So,” he said to Merrill, glaring so sharply at her it was a wonder her skin didn’t tear, “the Keeper finally found someone to take you away from here!”

Merrill did not bend or give ground, keeping her head high and face calm. “Yes.”

“Then be finished with your task, human,” the hunter demanded of Malia. “We cannot be rid of this one soon enough!” And he was gone, striding back towards the camp.

“He was friendly,” Malia observed.

“Don’t mind him.” Merrill shook her head sadly. “Let’s just go.” She beckoned us along, even as Varric hummed and began to watch more closely.

Near the cave, she paused. “I’m sorry. You’re not really seeing the Dalish at their best. We’re a good people,” she insisted. I couldn’t tell if Malia and Garrett believed her, but Carver was hanging on to her every word. “And we look out for each other. Just… not today, it seems.”

Garrett looked like he wanted to give her a hug, but held himself back. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

The frown on her face melted into a smile. “It’s kind of you to ask. I’m fine. Even if my people don’t appreciate my efforts, I must see this through.” I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to warn her. But after what had happened with Anders—after that fiasco… I couldn’t. I _couldn’t_. She sighed. “Let’s go. Asha’bellanar is not known for her patience.”

 

Every time I left a cave, I felt infinitely glad for it and began to dread the next time I’d need to make such a venture. Since I knew I’d need to traverse that cave yet again to get from the peak back down, I was far from pleased about it. But we had things to do.

We walked to the barrier that shimmered between two tall, crumbling pillars. I shivered; how old was this place? The pillars seemed ancient. Merrill walked to them slowly, but there was no hesitance in her steps. “I can open the way forward,” she said. “One moment.”

As she cut her arm and used blood magic to break the barrier, I watched. Garrett looked pale. I couldn’t read Malia or Varric’s faces, but Carver’s eyes grew wide. “Was that—”

“Yes, it was blood magic,” Merrill interrupted, speaking fast, “but I know what I’m doing! The spirit helped us, didn’t it?” Her words felt desperate.

“It did,” I said, keeping the others from saying something to upset her. “You just surprised us.” Not me, but I couldn’t say that much. I risked a glance around, and Carver was frowning at me. Garrett seemed prepared to just forget this happened, and Malia was shrugging it off already, but Carver wouldn’t.

As we walked forward, Merrill told us about the graveyard. “In the days of Arlathan, the elders came here to sleep. Uthenera—the endless dream, they called it. But they don’t sleep peacefully anymore.”

“Cheery,” Malia said. Carver snorted, but Merrill ignored the comment, leading the way carefully past ancient graves to the altar that overlooked the rest of the mountain. We followed in her footsteps, trying not to disturb any lingering evils, but still an Arcane Horror rose to stop us as we drew near.

Skeletons burst from the ground to join the Horror, and we were effectively surrounded. Garrett and I both cast shields over the group, which was entirely unnecessary, and then both started to release them. I paused just long enough to look at him, and when I nodded, he boosted his as I released mine.

Varric sent a few bolts through one skeleton, pulverizing its ribcage and destroying it. Carver shouted an unintelligible challenge somewhere behind me—likely at the Arcane Horror. I paralyzed a pair of skeletons, and Littlefoot ran at them at the same time as Malia. They should have crashed, but each altered enough at the last second to work together. It was obvious they’d both had extensive training.

Training that Garrett simply did not have, or at least which he didn’t have in similar quantities. One skeletal archer managed a solid hit to his chest, and he doubled over briefly. The archer aimed a second shot for whoever had the misfortune of being directly behind Garrett, but I froze it just in time. Garrett was then able to jab the base of his staff at the creature hard enough to shatter it.

Another minute of casual destruction later, we pinned and killed the Arcane Horror. It screeched at us even as it dissipated into nothingness. Malia straightened her tunic and brushed off her sleeves like it was any other Tuesday. Maybe it was.

Merrill glanced around, but nodded. “I think it’s safe now. Place the amulet on the altar, and I’ll begin the rite.”

I hadn’t even noticed Marethari return the amulet, but Malia fished it out of a pocket and laid it on the stone without missing a beat. Merrill followed her up, and soon we were all crowded around. She spoke, the words coming out stiffly like all rituals seemed to do, but for the first time, I really recognized what she was saying. It was the same words as in the Elvish eulogy, the one I’d sung so long ago for Tamlen.

My throat closed up as I wondered how terrible this year must have truly been for Merrill—I didn’t know how close she’d been with Tamlen, if they’d even been friends, but… It had to be hard. And now she was reciting the mourning song over an amulet.

While my thoughts wandered, she finished speaking. A bright golden light swirled around us, and then coalesced into the figure of a woman: Flemeth, Asha’bellanar. She stood and observed us as she climbed down from atop the altar. She seemed pleased to see Malia, Garrett, and Carver, but her golden eyes paused on me. I inclined my head to her; she was, after all, at least a vessel for one of my gods.

She smiled like I’d told her a wonderful secret. “Ah,” she said. “And here we are.”

Merrill bowed. “Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar.”

“One of the People, I see,” Flemeth observed. “So young and bright. Do you know who I am, beyond that title?”

“I know only a little,” Merrill confessed.

“Then stand! The People bend their knee too quickly.” She turned to me again. “And Vir’era. I must say, I did not expect to see you again.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that statement, at her surprise. “I enjoy subverting expectations.”

She laughed. “So it seems.” Then, at last, she gave her attention to the Hawkes. “So refreshing to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain. I half expected my amulet to end up in a merchant’s pocket.”

“We agreed to deliver the amulet,” Garrett said, effectively cutting off whatever remark Malia had prepared. “Though, you could have told us you were inside it.”

“Just a piece.” She smiled again, a flash of mirth, and then it was gone. “A small piece, but it was all I needed. A bit of… security, should the inevitable occur. And if I know my Morrigan, it already has.” I wondered if I should tell her that it hadn’t. Perhaps not. She’d find out soon enough anyway. Hopefully she wouldn’t suspect my interference.

“You have plans, I take it?” Garrett asked.

She examined the clawed armor of one hand. “Destiny awaits us both, dear boy. We have much to do.” She looked back up at him. “Before I go, a word of advice.” She turned to the altar, gesturing out at the sheer drop after it. “We stand at the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap.” She faced us again, and though no spells had been cast, a tense air seemed to gather about her, preparing for something. “It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.”

It was more melodramatic in person. I couldn’t tell if Malia was taking her seriously, but, thankfully, no one present doubted Flemeth’s power… even if they did doubt her sanity. Garrett kept the conversation going. “What should we do?”

“Do as I do,” Flemeth answered. “Become a dragon!” She laughed that manufactured laugh, then smirked. “You could never be a dragon.” If Garrett was offended, he didn’t say anything, and Flemeth looked to Merrill. “As for you, child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

“Ma serannas, Asha’bellanar,” Merrill murmured, nodding her head.

“And Vir’era, who so enjoys surprises…” As her eyes met mine once more, I wondered just how much she knew of me. Could she possibly know I was an anomaly? “Do not forget that you can be only one person. Choose wisely.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that. She must have known, or it must have shown on my face, because she smiled like a satisfied cat. “Now it is time for me to leave.” She approached Garrett and Malia. “You have my thanks… and my sympathy.”

Without another word, she turned her back to us and walked toward the altar. As she did so, she became enveloped in golden magic, the same bright color as her eyes, and transformed into a dragon. We watched her fly away in stunned silence.

“Wow,” Malia said, when Flemeth was too far to see well. Carver snorted.

“You’ve met her before?” Merrill asked me, eyes wide.

“Yes,” I said. “In the Korcari Wilds, after Ostagar.”

“Hey!” Varric nudged my arm. “You didn’t tell us that part of the story!”

I just shrugged, a small smile pulling at my lips. “I didn’t think it was important.” He spluttered, and we left the altar behind.

 

When we reached the camp again, Mheganni stopped us. “Merrill,” she said, completely ignoring the rest of our group, “please, you don’t have to go. You can stay! The Keeper said you could.”

Merrill made a sad face that wrenched at my heart. “No, Mheganni, I can’t. I have to go. That’s just how it has to be.”

“Why?” Mheganni demanded. I took a few steps back, figuring that neither woman would want us listening in on such a conversation. “Please, Merrill. I—I want you to stay.”

“No, you don’t,” Merrill murmured. “You want things to go back to how they were. You want me to stop using blood magic, like the rest of the clan. You know why I have to do it, though. I don’t have another choice. Ir abelas, lethallan.”

This wasn’t something I had expected. Who was Mheganni? She seemed so sad, so full of hurt, that I could all but see it surrounding her. Why was she the only one to stop Merrill? When I glanced around, there were other people also watching the exchange. Some looked angry, like Mheganni was betraying them for talking to Merrill. But some just looked sad. One woman, heavily pregnant, had even started to cry.

It was that woman who reminded me, without so much as a word, that this clan had faced great hardships coming here—and they would only face more as time moved along. Last year, they lost two hunters to the Blight before it even left the wilds, even if one still lived. (Theron couldn’t return. Not really.)

Merrill leaned close to Mheganni and spoke quietly for a moment, too quietly for me to catch, and then she began to walk away. Mheganni glared at me. If looks could kill, I’d surely have been struck dead by her gaze. I felt it like a physical burden as I followed Merrill out. Maybe she blamed me. I’d shown up twice, and each time, I took someone away.

It would probably be for the best if I never showed my face there again.

 

We managed to climb all the way to the bottom of Sundermount by the end of the day. Littlefoot was panting harder than he had in ages, and I didn’t blame him in the slightest. We should probably do more exercising, but who had the time to exercise while running a free clinic for an overflowing refugee population?

Merrill didn’t speak very much until we began to prepare dinner. “So…” she started, helping me to manage the fire. “Is your name really Vir’era?”

I laughed lightly. It wasn’t really my name, in all likelihood. But I couldn’t remember another name, not even from Before, from home. I never had remembered one. It wasn’t a problem. “Yeah. A bit funny, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit! But you’re nice.” She poked a wayward piece of kindling back into the fire. “Not at all how I thought you’d be.”

“What do you mean?” It’s not like she’d had much of a chance to get an idea of what kind of person I was. We’d talked exactly once back at the beginning, and I’d been unsteady and confused then. I was arguably neither now.

“Not in a bad way, of course!” She shook her head insistently. “I just meant—oh, I’m making such a mess of this.” She sighed rather dejectedly, and I felt sorry for her.

“No, you’re not, Merrill,” I said, firmly. “You’re doing just fine.”

Garrett sank down next to us. “You should listen to him,” he told her. “He’s absolutely right. You’ve not done a thing wrong yet, Merrill.”

She smiled at us, but it felt a bit weak. “I’m going to miss them, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But it’ll be alright.” I patted her shoulder, hoping it was comforting to her. She smiled at me again, so, at the very least, it didn’t make her feel worse.

“What I meant when I said you were nicer than I thought you’d be,” she said, changing the subject, “is that I’ve met a few other Firsts, when the clans would pass by or trade with each other, but they were never very friendly.” She shrugged, doodling in the dirt with her stick. “Not that they were mean, of course. They just weren’t interested in making friends.”

“Ah.” I nodded. Garrett hummed in agreement, though he didn’t have anything to add. I remembered Velanna, and how caustic she could be. How many Firsts were like her? Lanaya hadn’t been, but—well, she certainly had been more interested in the old ways and in being a good First (or Keeper) than in being a friend.

Littlefoot, dissatisfied with the despondent air that covered our little part of camp, decided to initiate some playful tug-of-war by grabbing Merrill’s stick. She laughed, but didn’t understand; she let him have the stick. He dropped it at her feet. She stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you want?”

He nosed the stick again and panted up at her. Garrett laughed, and pointed to the stick. “He wants you to throw it for him.”

“Why?” she asked, but followed the implied instructions anyway. Littlefoot barked happily and raced off after the stick, making Merrill giggle delightedly. “Oh!”

And so began a game of fetch. Peaches joined in when she and Malia returned from gathering water, and eventually everyone was brought the stick at least once by one dog or another. It… was nice.

 

I was back in the thick of healing refugees or administering potions by the next evening, though I promised to visit Merrill. She wanted to know about Theron—and, since she was living in the city now, I figured I might as well find a way for her to get in touch with him. I’d need to set up some method to receive mail, but I couldn’t do that in Darktown.

While I thought that over, the Hawkes began to visit Anders and me (plus Ser Pounce-a-Lot and Littlefoot) at random. They brought Fenris and Varric most of the time, but managed to introduce Aveline to us one night, as well. In the early hours of morning about a week after our trip to Sundermount, Malia came along with a laughing Isabela, Garrett limping along between them. The crew had been assembled, I thought to myself. I’d best be ready.

As Anders fussed over Garrett, I stood by with potions and bandages. Malia draped an arm over my shoulders casually, and I blinked up at her. She wasn’t paying attention, though; this must be some old habit of hers. Isabela, meanwhile, was happily looking over our potions stock. “Say, you wouldn’t mind if I took a bottle of this, would you?” she asked, pointing to an antidote for a particularly common toxin. We seemed to use three bottles of it each week, and a dose was barely more than a third of a bottle.

“Just one,” I told her. Anders didn’t even bother looking. I was the one generally in charge of the potions, anyway. Our potions skills were about equal, but since he was the better healer, it made sense to split the work.

“Thanks!” She gave me a brilliant smile over her shoulder. She must have expected something, because my simple smile-and-nod seemed to disappoint her somehow. I didn’t have time to wonder, though. Anders was reaching out for bandages with a frown.

“It’s sprained,” he declared. “And there’s not much I can do for that right now. Keep it wrapped and don’t use it for the rest of the day.” He plucked an elfroot potion from my hands and tucked it into Garrett’s. If anyone realized his white lie, no one mentioned it, though I was certain Anders could heal Garrett right then if he wanted. “Drink half of this with lunch and half with dinner. You should be fine by tomorrow morning.”

Malia sighed dramatically, taking her arm off me to move next to her brother and lean dramatically over him. “What a pity!” she said. “Poor Garrett, you won’t be able to come with us to the Blooming Rose.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. Anders grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to know why you plan to go there, but I’m certain Garrett’s better off staying away. It’s full of diseases you really don’t want.”

Isabela and Malia both laughed, but I couldn’t help wincing in agreement. “Don’t worry so much, Anders!” said Malia. “We just heard about a missing lady with a husband who’ll pay well for her return. Apparently runaway Ninette spent lots of time with a Jethann in the Blooming Rose. We figured we’d check him out.”

“Ohh, I love it when you say things like that!” Isabela crowed, laughing. Malia snickered, too, and Anders rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“What a pity, then,” Anders drawled, eyes sliding to meet Garrett’s. “You’ll just have to miss all the fun, won’t you?”

“Whatever shall I do to pass the time?” Garrett asked, throwing an arm over his forehead dramatically. “Oh, the woes of an invalid!”

Malia knocked him lightly upside the head, more for show than anything. He didn’t even feign injury. “You just want to stay here and stare at Anders all day.” Anders’ face turned bright red at the suggestion.

Garrett just grinned. “So what if I do? You heard the healer. I’m not allowed to put weight on my foot until I’m all healed up. I couldn’t go with you if I wanted. You’ll have to torture some other mage instead.”

Malia grinned and turned to Anders. “He’s got a point, you know. I’m down a mage. I could use you out there.”

“I’d really rather not,” Anders whined. He pulled a dramatically disgusted face. “The Blooming Rose is probably my second-least favorite part of Kirkwall.”

“What’s the first, then?” asked Isabela, as if she didn’t already know. I glanced at her. Maybe she didn’t. We had, after all, only just met her, and I didn’t know how much the Hawkes talked about the rest of us with their other—friends? companions?—whatever we were to them.

“The Gallows.” Anders raised his eyebrows at Isabela, inclining his head pointedly to his staff, which was resting against one of the nearby pillars next to Maleficent. She made an ‘ah’ face and nodded, clearly finding his thought process reasonable.

Malia huffed. “Fine, then. Ruin all my fun. You just want to stare at Garrett all day.”

Smirking through a blush, Anders replied, “So what if I do?” This time, Garrett’s face grew pink. I wanted to groan and punch something. This was how Anders flirted? Really? Creators save me.

(If any of it made me miss Nathaniel, I pointedly ignored those thoughts. They could lead to nowhere good, and I'd been doing so well since leaving.)

“We’ll just have to take the actual Grey Warden, I suppose,” Malia decided, tapping me on the shoulder. “He’s a better fighter, anyhow.” I wasn’t sure how true that was, but who was I to look a compliment horse in the mouth?

“Plus I come with a bonus mabari, free of charge,” I said, smiling. Hearing those words, Littlefoot perked up from the corner where he’d been dozing with Ser Pounce-a-Lot.

“Sold!” Malia punched the air over her head. “I’ll be taking this one, then.” Without warning, she slipped her arms under mine and picked me up, lifting me over her shoulder like I weighed next to nothing. “Come along, Littlefoot! Isabela, if you’d be so kind as to grab his staff—it’s the fancy one. We’ll see you boys later!”

With no choice but to go along with it, I waved goodbye to Anders and Garrett. They laughed. We must have made quite the picture.

 

It didn’t take long to get to the Blooming Rose (by which point Malia had set me back on my own feet), and from there, the ladies on the main floor were only too happy to point us to Jethann’s room. They giggled at us, and their eyes lingered on the griffon over my chest, but they didn’t stop us. My face was still burning by the end of the interaction.

Malia knocked once before entering. Jethann turned from the bed in surprise, but smiled as easily as breathing. “Today’s my rest day, but I’ll make an exception for you,” he practically purred, eying Malia up and down. She seemed to enjoy the attention. He continued, shrugging, “What can I say? Why work if you’re not working hard?”

“Oh, I like him!” Isabela said. “He reminds me of someone.” Malia and I both snorted, and she just seemed even more pleased by it. Jethann winked at her.

“Jethann,” started Malia, “have you seen Ninette lately?”

“Ninette?” He took a moment to think. “Not for several weeks—which is a shame! I enjoy her company.” Here he smiled as if we weren’t already completely aware of just what sort of company one keeps at a brothel. Waving a hand as if to brush the thought aside, he continued, “I hear she finally left her worthless husband. Good for her! I just wish she’d said goodbye.”

He actually did sound upset that Ninette hadn’t visited him, too. Even if I hadn’t known her fate, and that he was telling the truth, I would find myself compelled to believe him. His choice in profession might not be… ideal (and perhaps it wasn’t his choice), but he seemed a trustworthy sort. Or, at least, truthful. And certainly very candid.

Malia seemed to agree. She nodded along with Jethann’s words, but had a few more questions nevertheless. “Did she tell you she left her husband?”

He shrugged. “No. I just hope that’s what she did. Ghyslain only wants her for her family’s wealth,” he said, voice lowered like it was some secret. “Ninette’s a jewel! Elegant! Worldly! Just the _perfect_ level of depraved… Ghyslain doesn’t deserve her.”

Malia hummed. “Do you think Ninette has come to harm?”

“I hope not!” He put a hand over his chest for a moment. “Everyone loves Ninette! Sometimes twice a night.” He chuckled at his own joke. Isabela and Malia did, too, actually, which seemed to please Jethann. “Ghyslain’s the only one who might hurt her,” he insisted, then brought up a cupped hand and wiggled his fingers. “And he doesn’t have the balls for it.”

I covered my mouth in an effort to stifle my snort of laughter, but failed. Malia and Isabela both seemed equally entertained by the line, at least, so it’s not like I was alone. It was just… to see that line, probably one of my favorite lines, in person? I couldn’t help laughing.

“Ghyslain knew about you and Ninette,” said Malia. “Did he talk to you?”

Jethann rolled his eyes. “The man is _incapable_ of talking.” He paced a little as he listed. “He came here, yelled at me, called me a dirty knife-ear—among other things!—and accused me of corrupting his wife!” I winced. Having been on the receiving end of ‘knife-ear’ myself, and the malicious intent that generally followed, I felt sympathy well up in me for Jethann. He paused and smiled at Malia. “We had him thrown out.”

“Good on you!” Malia answered, grinning. She didn’t seem to care much for Ghyslain either. He rarely made a very good impression. I couldn’t blame her. “But you’re certain Ninette didn’t tell you where she was going? You seem awfully fond of her.”

“I wish she had. All I know is that there was someone else looking for her,” he told us. “A Templar. I believe his name was Emeric. He wouldn’t sleep with me either.” Jethann pouted, but didn’t seem too terribly troubled. “I can’t see why a Templar would be interested in anyone who isn’t a mage.”

“Any chance Ninette’s an apostate?” Malia seemed hopeful.

Jethann smirked. “Well, she certainly cast a spell on me.” Winking, he chuckled again, but Malia didn’t seem quite as entertained by this joke. “Anyway, if Ninette was a mage, I think Emeric would’ve said so.”

She sighed. “Perhaps Emeric knows something we don’t, then.”

“Emeric said he’d continue his investigation in Darktown. You could see if he’s still there. And if you find Ninette, tell her to drop be and see me sometime.”

Malia laughed, but promised to do so, and we shuffled away. Isabela gave Jethann one last look before she followed. “Back where we came from, then,” Malia said. “Don’t you just love Darktown?” She was answered with groans. She didn’t seem to care.

 

Given that we didn’t actually know where Emeric would be, we had to just wander and hope, which is never a very good thing when the place you’re wandering is Darktown. It’s full of thugs and thieves. I’d been accosted a few times when I ventured too far from the clinic on errands, and traveling in numbers did little to dissuade the locals.

Thankfully, though, in real life, you don’t actually have to kill every enemy that comes your way with a knife. Most often, I’d beat a few down and the rest would go running. Some even stopped when they recognized me from the clinic, which was a nice bonus. Malia had a very different reputation, though. She and her brothers had worked for the Red Iron to get into Kirkwall, and people knew it. They found her a fair target.

They also usually regretted it.

This, more or less, is how we found Emeric. One group or another had decided that they’d take down the old Templar. It’s possible they had entirely noble reasons, of course. It was a poorly-kept secret that Darktown harbored many apostates, and Templars would be far from welcome. Still.

“That’s Emeric,” I said, as soon as he came into view.

“Must be,” Malia agreed, and then she was off. Isabela disappeared without so much as a by-your-leave, and I didn’t know where she’d gone off to, so I only had the ability to shield Malia and Littlefoot.

Malia jammed the pommel of one dagger into the arm of a bandit who got a bit too close to Emeric, and I trapped him in a paralyzing glyph as he stumbled to the side. Littlefoot managed to disarm another of the thugs, and he ran off without further fight. I sent a fireball just short of his feet to ensure he wouldn’t return.

Isabela seemed to have fewer qualms about killing not-quite-innocent civilians, though. When I found her again, she had slit the throat of one man and backstabbed the group’s lone woman.

There were only two men left, and they threw their weapons and ran when I looked at them. Malia calmly sheathed her daggers, and Isabela leaned over to nick whatever valuables her two victims had been carrying. I looked away, not entirely comfortable with her very cavalier attitude towards it all. (Then again, I had killed before. Why should this be any different?)

I offered Emeric a hand, helping him back onto his feet. He smiled at us. “I thank you ser, serah, for coming along when you did.” He nodded to Malia. “I am Emeric.”

“That’s what we thought,” Malia answered. “We were looking for you. We were hoping to speak with you about Ninette.”

Emeric grimaced. “Ah. Ghyslain de Carrac’s wife.” He nodded. “Her disappearance interested me. I tried looking into it. However, the investigation has been a waste of time.”

“Come, now, don’t say that. You must have learned something,” prodded Malia. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be down here, right?”

“Most people just say she left her husband,” he said. Something like sadness clouded his face. “This all started when Mharen, one of our Circle mages, disappeared. I found it odd. She was a bit older and hardly adventurous.” Sighing, he pursed his lips for a moment. “Then I heard about Ninette and two other missing women.”

“A woman goes missing, and you’ll either never find her, or you’ll just find her body,” Isabela murmured, obviously not impressed with Emeric’s investigative abilities.

“I hope you’re wrong, madam.” He gestured with his hand. “I think the disappearances are connected, and I suspect foul play is involved.”

Malia hummed. “It’s not like it’s uncommon for mages to leave the Circle. Couldn’t Mharen simply have escaped?”

“It’s possible, but…” Emeric shook his head. “No, Mharen was always very loyal. I doubt she’d ever try such a thing. Besides, she’d just received a bouquet of white lilies from a suitor. We assumed she’d gone to meet him.”

I wasn’t entirely sure that his insistence meant Mharen would never have left if she had the option to, but since I knew her true fate, I stayed silent. (Her name was unfamiliar, but to be connected to this case, to have received those telltale white lilies… she had to be a victim. I was certain of it.) Malia huffed. “What about her phylactery, then?”

“We tried that,” Emeric said, irritably. “It led us to a foundry in the western part of Lowtown, but by the time we got there, we found nothing. No body, no Mharen, no traces of anything.” Foundry? I didn’t remember the foundry…

“What about the guard, then?”

“They claim it’s all a coincidence, that women leave their husbands all the time, and so there’s nothing to look into,” he explained, but the curl of his lip showed his distaste for that opinion clear as day.

“Maybe they’re dead.”

“Maker, I hope not.”

We were at an impasse, it seemed. Emeric knew little more than we did. Malia groaned. “Ugh, why is finding things always so difficult?”

“It doesn’t matter. This investigation is over. If you want to continue it, be my guest.” Malia nodded, but she didn’t seem overly enthused. “This battle showed I’m no longer the warrior I used to be. I know when to walk away.” He pulled out some papers and handed them over. “Here, take my findings. Perhaps you can make more use of them. I’m going back to the Gallows. I’m too old for this.”

Isabela snickered as he walked away. He paused as he passed me, giving me a nod. “Warden Vir’era.” And then he left.

The two women looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged at them. “Even Warden mages can’t enter a Circle city without letting the Templars know.” They nodded at the explanation, and we meandered back to the clinic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _aneth ara_ \- casual greeting  
>  _asha'bellanar_ \- the woman of many years, one of flemeth's names  
>  _andaran atish'an_ \- "enter this place in peace"/a formal greeting  
>  _ma serannas_ \- thank you  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i'm sorry  
>  _lethallan_ \- friendly endearment used for women


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI SORRY I ALMOST FORGOT TO UPLOAD I THOUGHT IT WAS THURSDAY
> 
> also i am so exhausted and so ready for this last weekend of my ten fuckin hour classes B)

Isabela left to return to the Hanged Man after we reached the clinic, and Malia made her promise to send Varric down with some lunch. While we waited for Varric, I helped tend to a hurt little girl and Anders took a well-deserved, if brief, break. Malia and Garrett hunched over Emeric’s papers, discussing them quietly together.

The little girl, whose arm was visibly broken, seemed very nervous. She was crying, but barely made a sound and kept glancing between myself and Anders. Her worried father stood behind her, rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders. She hardly seemed to notice.

I came forward slowly, not wanting to surprise her. The sight of her broken arm made my stomach churn, and I was glad we hadn’t eaten yet. “I’m here to help,” I said, hoping for a reassuring voice. She stared at me distrustfully, and I saw her eyes flick up over my shoulder to Maleficent.

“Would you feel better if I left the staff over here?” I asked, about five feet away. She nodded, and I put Maleficent against a pillar. “Okay. I’m going to come look at your arm now, alright?”

She just stared with tears falling down her face, but her father nodded. “Please, ser.”

She was far from the first to visit out of desperation, when all other avenues were closed, with a great fear of mages. I hoped that Anders and I were helping to change opinions, at least a little bit, with our work here. It was hard to tell most days, though.

With my hands raised so that she could keep an eye on them, I walked slowly towards her. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Cynthia,” she said. Her voice wobbled, and I gave her a small smile.

“Hello, Cynthia. My name is Vir’era, and I’m a Grey Warden. I’ve learned how to heal from two of the best healers of Ferelden’s Circle of Magi, okay?” I kept a small running commentary, and she relaxed slightly. “I’m going to make your arm better. Is that okay with you?”

She frowned and glanced up at her father, but he nodded and even smiled at her, so she gave me the tiniest little nod. She started to try and move the broken arm towards me, but I shook my head. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to move. I know it hurts.” I reached to the side and picked up a vial of elfroot potion, uncorking it for her. “I need you to drink this first. It’s made with elfroot.”

With her uninjured hand, she slowly reached forward and accepted the potion. I watched her drink it, and smiled when she finished the entire thing. “Thank you, Cynthia. That should help with the pain and make it easier for me to heal your arm.”

When she gave me the barest flash of a smile, I knew it had worked. “Okay. Now I do need to touch your arm for this part. Don’t be nervous. I promise to stop if you ask me to.”

I waited for her to nod before I put my hand carefully beneath the break. “This will hurt at first. I’m going to try and make sure it hurts as little as I can. Do you want Littlefoot to sit with you? Or Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” I indicated the animals, who sat off to the side near Anders. She shook her head quickly. Maybe she was afraid of dogs. It wouldn’t be the first time for that, either. “Is it okay if I sing, then? Sometimes that helps people stay calm, and then it doesn’t hurt as much.”

She bit her lip, but nodded. “Okay. I’m going to start singing, then. I won’t do anything until I’ve started.” Another nod. There was really only one song that I liked to sing when I was helping patients like Cynthia. Maybe it was silly, because there was no way she could know it, but it seemed like the best choice to me. “ _Flower, gleam and glow. Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse… Bring back what once was mine…_ ”

As gently as I could, I aligned Cynthia’s broken bone. She whimpered a little, but didn’t tell me to stop, so I figured it was all good for now, and began sending little pulses of healing magic into the bones and the flesh surrounding it. “ _Heal what has been hurt; change the fates’ design. Save what has been lost… Bring back what once was mine—what once was mine…_ ”

And then I let go of her arm. Amazed, Cynthia flexed her fingers and glanced at me, then looked at her arm, then to me again. “There you go!” I said, smiling, and pretending not to feel the weariness such advanced healing brought about.

“Th-thank you,” she stuttered. I stood up straight and shuffled back a bit so she had more personal space.

“You’re welcome, Cynthia. Thank you for being patient. Your arm will still be weak for a little while, but if you drink a little of this with dinner tonight, and be careful for the next week, you should be okay.” I handed them another vial of elfroot and waved goodbye as her father picked her up, stuttering a few more thanks and an apology that they could not pay us despite the fact that we were a free clinic (I assured him it was fine), and watched them leave.

As soon as they were out the door, I let out a long breath I hadn’t known I was holding and slumped down onto the cot Cynthia had just vacated. My heart was pounding. I’d been fine while Cynthia was there—I’d had to be calm for her—but now that she was gone, all my nerves decided to hit me at once, draining me yet more of energy.

“I didn’t know you were so good with children, Vee,” Anders said, sneaking up on my right. I jumped in surprise, letting out a small squeak. Anders, the traitor, and both Hawkes laughed. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Don’t do that!” I whined, flapping an arm at him. “You know I don’t like it when people do that.” Well, he probably did, at least.

He shrugged, unrepentant. “The point about the children still stands, you know. Where did you learn about dealing with snotty brats?” I wasn’t sure if that was Anders’ genuine opinion of kids, or if he was trying to make fun of me.

“Dalish don’t have many people in a clan, so everyone has to help out,” I said. Not actually the answer he wanted, but I was fairly sure that it was, at least in part, the truth. “And children are considered precious.”

“I guess someone has to,” he said, sighing. I rolled my eyes and began to prepare more elfroot potions and various antidotes. Crushing the elfroot with the mortar and pestle was calming. The repetitive motion allowed me to regain some semblance of control over my breathing and movements.

 

Varric showed up with food not long after. It was mostly bread and dried meats, but Anders and I hadn’t had meat in over a month. Protein was not easy to come by in Darktown, and neither of us had the coin to spare for a trip to the butcher. We subsisted on stale bread and mushrooms mostly. It was not a healthy diet.

“So,” Varric said as we ate, “what’s the deal with the missing noblewoman, then? Husband just miss all the signs—new jewelry, frequent outings, the whole kit and caboodle?”

“Unfortunately not,” Garrett answered. He sighed and waved a piece of bread at the papers Emeric had given Malia. “From the sound of it, someone’s been kidnapping and likely killing women for a while. If we’re lucky, Ninette isn’t dead yet.”

“What’s the sound of it, then?” Varric picked up one of the papers and skimmed it.

Malia waved a different page at him until he took it instead. “At least two of the women received white lilies from an apparent suitor before they disappeared,” she said. “Which might be a coincidence, because most people give flowers on the first date and lilies are very pretty, but it might be something more. We’re not entirely sure just yet.”

“It can’t be a coincidence,” I said. Mostly because I knew better, and I hoped they’d warn people about it. Maybe we could save Leandra this time. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t roses a more common gift for early human romances?”

“He’s got a point.” Varric stared contemplatively at the pages in his hands. “Red roses, especially, tend to be the status quo. Most men wouldn’t deviate too much from that until they knew their lady’s preferences. If they bothered to know them at all, anyway.”

Garrett bit thoughtfully into his bread. Malia tore a piece off of hers and offered it to Littlefoot, who was all too happy to take it. Poor dog was living off Darktown rats (shared with Ser Pounce-a-Lot and the more desperate of the refugees). I wished I could give him better. He deserved it, and anyone could see that he wasn’t being fed as well as he should. “Ghyslain did say lilies were Ninette’s favorite,” Malia told us. “I don’t know about Mharen, though.”

“So it could be coincidence, then,” Varric concluded. “And we’re back to square one.”

I bit my lip, worrying it between my teeth. Should I say something? Should I not? How much meddling was too much? At which point did the butterfly effect snowball past what I could recover from? Is it better to know and help guide to the best solutions for what I know and allow bad to happen, or should I attempt to do as much good as possible for as many as possible, and fuck the consequences?

Anders nudged me with his elbow. I glanced at him. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. I winced and looked away. Right now… We’d have to make do with what Emeric gave us. I couldn’t risk it. Was that cruel? I was likely condemning yet more women to their deaths—but even I knew that there were few options, and that the killer was just clever enough to outwit us yet.

I couldn’t risk it, risk never catching him. This path held death for good people, yes, but it also was certain to be the end of that cruel monster. I pointed at the page with the most recent entries. “Emeric did mention a foundry. We may as well check there.”

“Tonight, then,” Malia decided. “Varric, Vir’era, meet me at the Hanged Man just after dusk. I need a nap before we do anything, and I think Aveline would like to hear about this. The guard as a whole might not be able to do much, but if I know Aveline, she’d be glad to stick her nose around and see if she can’t dig something up for us. Anders, you just keep pretending to take care of my brother. He likes massages.”

Garrett groaned and dropped his face into his hands. Anders laughed and blushed even as he looked over to Garrett. I became increasingly uncertain how in the world this was the same Anders who had flirted so readily and cheekily with Velanna.

(Ah, but of course I knew how: Justice. I just didn’t know how _that_ affected _this_.)

 

I arrived at the Hanged Man a few hours later. The sun was still up, but the shadows it inspired were long and dark already. It wouldn’t be long until dusk. Still, hanging around outside a pub was rarely a good plan, and so I made my way inside. Varric spotted me immediately; instead of being up in his rooms, he was down by the bar, speaking animatedly with Isabela. He paused when I entered.

“Mittens! You’re early!” he called, waving me over. With my armor on and staff strapped to my back (not to mention the large, if somewhat malnourished, mabari at my side), even drunkards stepped readily out of my way as I walked towards Varric. I couldn’t have made a particularly imposing figure (shorter than everyone present, hair unwashed and greasy, circles doubtlessly under my eyes, thin even for an elf), but either they had enough respect for Grey Wardens since the Blight, or simply a great fear of mages.

Neither were particularly calming thoughts, were I to be entirely honest.

“Hello,” I said when I reached Varric and Isabela. I sat, and Varric pushed a bowl of soup at me. I started to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“No, you and Blondie can’t be eating enough, and you need whatever food you can get. Eat it, Mittens, before I make you.” He stared me down until I picked up the spoon and began to eat, at which point he nodded and returned to his own meal.

Isabela, however, had a different bone to pick with me. She jabbed her spoon in my direction with a little glare. “Why didn’t you remind me we’ve met?” she demanded. When I just blinked at her, she huffed. “Denerim, about—what, a year ago? Varric says you’re one of the Grey Wardens that stopped the Blight, and I remember speaking with those very Wardens. It’s not the kind of thing one forgets.”

“Oh,” I said, then had another bite of soup. “I’m sorry. So much has happened. I forgot. You and I didn’t speak much.”

She shrugged. “No harm done, I suppose. It was Castor that I spent most time with. And Zevran, of course.” She laughed, but gave me a serious look then. “He make it out alright?”

“Better than, I think.” The soup wasn’t very flavorful, but still tasted wonderful to me. “He’s with Theron now.”

She clicked her tongue. “Which one was that?”

“The other Dalish, with the orange hair and the bow. He’s also the one they’re calling the Hero of Ferelden, now,” I said.

“Good for him!” She laughed. “I always wondered if he’d settle down. I suspect he’s wondered the same about me. So, are they in Denerim? Being worshipped by nobles and fed until they’re fat?”

I laughed at the thought. There wasn’t a world that existed in which someone like Theron and someone like Zevran could happily stay put and be pampered like that. Especially not when other elves were still treated like scum. “No. They left Denerim soon after the celebrations were over. Theron couldn’t stand to be around noble shems and expected to play nice any longer.”

Both Varric and Isabela nodded along at the idea. “Now that sounds more like the Zevran I know,” Isabela said. “He’ll probably come up with something crazy for them to do.”

I smiled into my soup, knowing how very true that was—especially given that it had already begun. I wasn’t sure how long it’d take for Zevran to deal with the Crows. Years, certainly. I knew he’d be in Kirkwall on the run from them still in 9:37 Dragon. But what about after that? I didn’t know for certain. Perhaps they’d hunt him until he died or disappeared permanently. As long as he and Theron kept each other safe, I found I didn’t care.

Varric then picked up a conversation with Isabela to describe how he and the Hawkes had befriended Fenris. She didn’t hide her curiosity, asking all sorts of questions about him. They’d yet to meet, but Varric was a very good storyteller. By the time Malia or Garrett got around to introducing Fenris and Isabela, I was certain each would be familiar with the other as if they had, in fact, already met.

It’s how I felt about all of them. I rarely noticed it anymore, because I’d gotten the feeling intermittently for over a year, but occasionally it was still a marvel to me, that they could feel so familiar to me when I was very much a mystery to them.

I only finished half the bowl of soup, so I gave the rest to Littlefoot. Unlike me, he didn’t protest, but he was a dog. However smart and however friendly, he was still a war dog, and he ate like one. If only for him, I needed to get better food in the clinic. Somehow.

Malia breezed in as Littlefoot finished, almost like she’d been waiting for that moment to make her dramatic entrance. She didn’t bother coming all the way to the table; as soon as she caught my eye, she beckoned, and left the pub once more. Varric was already up and bidding Isabela adieu. I did the same, and she waved us away.

Outside, Malia and Fenris were waiting. He nodded to me. We weren’t yet what I’d call friends—Fenris was, as ever, wary of mages, and especially those connected to Anders—but he accepted my presence, and seemed to respect me. I suspected that this was due at least in part to my association with the Grey Wardens.

“Ready?” she asked, after giving Littlefoot a friendly pat on the head. He panted happily up at her. We all gave our assent, and she led us down the street.

The foundry district wasn’t far from the Hanged Man—at least, it was closer than the clinic. Where it had taken nearly an hour for me to walk to the Hanged Man from the clinic, it took barely ten minutes to reach the foundry district. From there, Malia consulted the map that had been among Emeric’s papers.

I glanced around at the buildings. They were almost entirely empty, bringing an eerie quiet to the place. A few workers walked past us in pairs, but none so much as batted an eyelash at our presence. Either it was not unusual for people to pause and talk at the entrance to the district, or they just didn’t want to offend people with as much weaponry as us. (Alternatively, they didn’t care. They might not be paid enough to give half a shit.)

Malia soon pointed us to one of the foundries nearby, and we climbed the stairs to enter. The door creaked open. I frowned. This place was abandoned—at least mostly abandoned—but the air inside smelled… Well, not fresh, but it smelled about how one would expect for a foundry. Not even as stale as most of Darktown’s bowels.

The others sensed this oddity as well, and we crept our way forward, Malia in front. As we walked into the main room, I caught a glimpse of someone fleeing the scene. It was too dark and I was too far to see much more than a vaguely human-shaped figure, though.

“Shit!” I turned at Malia’s exclamation to see shades whirling into existence all across the floor. Our suspect had effectively blocked pursuit. But maybe—maybe if we were fast enough, we could—

We fought and sliced and burned through the shades, but we were too slow, and the suspect got away. I hated it all. Malia waved at the place. “Well, let’s at least look around. We may have spooked him, but he can’t have covered all his tracks, right?”

I poked around on the main floor. The man may have been above at the railings, but who knows? Perhaps he dropped something. Fenris stayed close. I suspected he was watching me, to ensure I hadn’t been tempted by something that may or may not linger in the dark room. Not that I blamed him for it. In his shoes… Well, I’d probably hide. That’s how I dealt with most things. Cowardly.

There wasn’t much for me to find. A few spare coins, which I appropriated without hesitation or remorse. Some rat droppings. Spider webs—both occupied and not. Littlefoot discovered a pair of fine, if soiled, pants. But nothing to do with Ninette or Mharen. Nothing that could help with our case.

“Maker!” Malia shouted, and I spun to face her. She held a sack.

“What is it?” Fenris asked, stepping toward the balcony.

“Bones. Human bones, I think. And a ring—which might be Ninette’s.” She made a frustrated sound. “Dammit. I was hoping…”

“It’s not your fault,” Varric said, exiting a room from just behind Malia. “We couldn’t have made it in time if we tried. Those bones are too clean.”

She sighed. “You’re right, of course. I think Ser Emeric will want to see this. And… it would probably be good to give Ghyslain the ring. He can have some closure.”

“Tomorrow,” said Fenris. “It is already late enough tonight.” Malia nodded. Gathering up ourselves, we left the foundry. I said goodbye at the entrance to the district and made my way back through the winding Kirkwall streets to the clinic.

 

Malia didn’t show up to collect me at the clinic until midday. I had expected her earlier, but she must have been held up. Garrett was there, too, fit as a fiddle once more, and Fenris trailed behind. “Carver thinks we’re mental for voluntarily deciding to go to the Gallows,” Malia announced, by way of greeting, “but I’d say there’s plenty of other reasons.”

“Aneth ara,” I said in response, raising an eyebrow. She waved a hand at me dismissively. Fenris snorted and nodded in my general direction.

“Carver’s right, if you ask me,” Anders put in, glancing up from his writing. His manifesto, probably. It wasn’t very long yet. We used rejected pages for kindling. “No one, especially not a mage, should set foot there of their own free will. And most don’t.”

I winced. He didn’t like it when I wrote my reports for Meredith, and he was very vocal about it. That last comment was doubtlessly aimed at me. “You know I’m just trying to keep them appeased and off our backs.” He didn’t deign to answer.

“It doesn’t matter if we want to go or not,” said Malia. “That’s where Ser Emeric is, and I need to show him this bag. I also took it to Aveline earlier, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.” She sighed and shrugged. “Plus, some poor girl seems worried about her Templar-recruit brother. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s also a Ser Thrask who I’ve been asked to speak with.”

“You mean who I’ve been asked to speak with,” Garrett corrected, elbowing Malia. She flapped an arm at him. “I’m the one who spoke with Arianni, if I recall correctly. You were… what were you doing, actually? You were staring at that huge tree in the Alienage. Don’t tell me you were thinking of climbing it.”

“And if I was?”

“Maker’s breath.” Garrett groaned. Malia grinned. “Don’t—just… Don’t climb possibly-sacred trees.”

“They’re all Andrastian, Garrett. There’s nothing sacred about that tree!” she protested.

“And how would you know?”

As they dissolved into friendly sibling bickering, Fenris came to stand by me. He gave Littlefoot a brief pat, which delighted the mabari. Thankfully, Littlefoot was also smart enough to realize that Fenris simply was not very big on interpersonal contact, and didn’t decide to attack him out of sheer loving joy.

“I understand that you maintain contact with the Templars as part of your presence here,” Fenris said. I blinked at him, having not expected such a topic (even if I should have). “This is good.”

“I don’t—like Circles,” I answered, awkwardly. He frowned at me, and I rushed to explain. “I have friends who have been horribly mistreated in the Circles, though I have never lived in one. I… I report to the Templars as part of a necessary evil so they will not brand me an apostate. Even being a Grey Warden can protect me only so far.”

He hummed. “But still, surely you must agree that the Circles are better than the alternative.”

“Perhaps.” I tugged on my sleeves. We had no patients right now. I had no escape from this conversation until Malia and Garrett decided they were ready to go. “But I don’t find either option particularly pleasant. I… There must be some middle ground. Something between oppression by mages and oppression of mages.”

“You would call this oppression?” he asked me, eyebrows raised. He didn’t sound pleased—or, at least, he sounded less pleased than his generally-displeased custom.

“Not of the same sort, not like Anders might try to compare, but…” I gestured at the clinic. “If I want a semblance of freedom, this is my destiny. If I want comfort, I must give up freedom and abide by strict rules. The Grey Wardens offer protection and fewer rules, but cost still freedom and require service instead.”

“Trust me. The Circle is better,” Fenris insisted, folding his arms.

“Perhaps it is.” I hadn’t experienced slavery. I hadn’t even experienced the Circle. Neria didn’t like it, but she didn’t hate it. Daylen only cared about leaving because of Morrigan. Anders… He had horrible experiences in the Circles. I didn’t know the extent. I didn’t want to. I just knew it was bad. Few had notably good lives in the Circle. Most simply existed.

I didn’t want that.

 

Not many people visited the Gallows, and even fewer ever left its confines. There was still a ferryman, of course. Unlike in Ferelden, though, this man was a Templar, and wore the armor to show it. He never told me his name, but he was passingly familiar enough that I recognized his face, even through the helmet.

He never charged to bring me to the Gallows. Malia seemed a bit surprised when he didn’t charge her. Garrett (who had left his staff at Gamlen’s house) smiled and thanked the man. Fenris just nodded. Little was said as we were rowed over the water. Malia tried to make small talk, but our ferryman didn’t respond.

We didn’t dare part ways in the Gallows, not even to wrap things up more quickly. A few people stared at me, likely wondering why I would be here with random Fereldans. I deliberately ignored them. (Or, at least, tried to.)

That said, as Malia turned over the sack of bones to Ser Emeric, I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. Instead, I glanced around the courtyard, searching for—something. Someone. Maybe someones. But I didn’t see Meredith, thank the creators. Nor did I see Cullen.

I hoped Mia wasn’t too angry with me. I’d only written two letters to her since arriving in Kirkwall, and had yet to reply to her last message—the one with a letter for Cullen. That was weeks ago by now. I just… I didn’t have an address. Not one I could freely give out. I hadn’t written to anyone, really. Only reports to Meredith and Castor.

Garrett tapped my shoulder, breaking me of my thoughts. Malia and Fenris were already walking off towards a different Templar. I gave a tiny smile and hurried along after them, but paid still no mind to the conversation. I picked up enough to know this was Ser Thrask. Malia and Garrett were searching for Feynriel, who I knew was likely already captured by slavers. I just didn’t remember how we would get from Thrask to slavers. Maybe my journal knew.

I needed to check my journal again. I hadn’t read it since writing it. I was starting to forget what would happen, and when, and how. I didn’t know if it was the normal type of forgetfulness—the sort that happens because it’s been well over a year, and why would I expect to remember even the smallest details?—or if it was something else altogether. If maybe someday I’d forget it all.

Maybe that would be a blessing. I could be… mostly normal. I wouldn’t have to worry about how to access Merrill’s eluvian. About if it would take me home.

About if I wanted to go home.

Again, Garrett tapped me. This time, he looked a bit concerned. I blinked at him slowly. Was something wrong? Did Thrask think Feynriel was hurt, dead? I hoped not, but I couldn’t remember. I liked Feynriel. He seemed sweet. I shuffled along towards the Templar recruits, my mind a thousand miles away. A million light-years. In another universe. Somewhere.

Littlefoot’s cold, wet nose pressed against my fingers. I wrinkled my nose down at him. He snorted in my palm, leaving wet… something all over it. I grimaced at the feeling, and Littlefoot began to lick my hand. His tongue was rougher than I had expected the first time he’d licked me. Slimier than a cat’s, though. No barbs.

I watched Littlefoot calmly and methodically remove his own mucus from my hand (how gross, actually, why did you do that, Littleshit?), and gradually regained awareness of the world around me again.

“…Knight-Captain Cullen’s gone after him,” said one of the recruits. The words caught my interest, and I glanced up at her. “He said we’re not to talk about it.”

“But they’re on the Wounded Coast?” Garrett asked.

“Yes,” answered a different recruit.

“Thank you,” Garrett said, smiling at them. They smiled back, like it was instinct, because that’s what you do when Garrett smiles at you.

“And good luck with the whole… Possibly-deadly initiation bit!” Malia chirped. When she grinned, they seemed a bit less enthusiastic. One of them snorted.


	5. Pay Us to Do Things

We had to split up in the end. Not that it was likely to turn out differently, of course. Even Garrett agreed that it would be a remarkably bad decision for him— _a mage_ —to go off after the Knight-Captain and a Templar recruit into a situation that could easily become tense. He, therefore, went to find Samson and hopefully get more information about Feynriel’s location. Fenris, Malia, and I set off for the Wounded Coast. If we were lucky, it wouldn’t be too a long trip.

Of course, it was already afternoon. The docks were close to one of the city’s exits, but we likely wouldn’t be back until very late that night—and that assumed that the Templar recruit hadn’t gone far.

There wasn’t enough time to rush back and pack bedrolls or food, though. We’d have to make do. I was more or less used to that, after running around from the Blight last year. It’d be fine.

It was really a bit too easy to find Cullen and Wilmond. If the recruit had been trying to hide, he did so very poorly. Still, it was somewhat jarring to see Cullen so aggressively shouting at Wilmond. He had his sword to the man’s throat, was pressing forward as if to strike.

“I thought Templars only treated mages that badly!” Malia said, cutting off Cullen’s next words. She grinned cockily, but her hands were on her daggers where they were strapped to her hips. “Nice to see you’re branching out.”

Cullen spared only a glance to find the owner of the voice. “This is Templar business, stranger!”

Malia began to reply. I reached out to stop her—or maybe to reassure Cullen—but Wilmond laughed, a wicked sound like that of villains in children’s stories I once read, and revealed his true nature. “You have struck me the last time, you pathetic human!” he crowed, standing and taking a few steps back. “To me!”

A red glow exploded from him, and he was no more. In his place, an abomination came to be, and this once-Wilmond abomination summoned demons of rage and shades to protect itself. We scrambled for better positions as the creatures began to attack.

“Maker preserve us,” Cullen prayed.

I swung Maleficent off my shoulder, casting shields as I did so. Fenris and Littlefoot ran immediately into the fray with Cullen. I kept an eye on their positions and cast Winter’s Grasp at a rage demon as it neared. I didn’t quite freeze it, but the ice did sizzle over its body, leaving a large black mark. It was injured.

And now it saw me. There wasn’t more than ten meters in the little nook that Wilmond had set camp in, and though I was at its edge, the demon was less than four meters from me. I couldn’t back up, or I'd risk falling to my death. Desperate, I laid paralyzing glyphs along the ground leading up to me. The rage demon broke through the first but was caught by the second, and I mustered a great amount of cold energy, concentrating it through my staff. The demon screamed and dispersed, dust in the wind.

One more rage demon. The Wilmond-Abomination and shades were under control; I could see Littlefoot distracting one while Malia flanked it. It was gone in no time. The only problem with this rage demon? It was on the other side of the camp. I had no clear shot. If I wanted to properly rid the world of its sweltering mass, I’d need to get past the fighting.

Thankfully, I was a shapeshifter.

Cats are much smaller than even elves, and fleet of foot. I shrank down to that form and darted through the feet of my companions and the… whatever of the shades. As soon as I was safely across, I transformed back and placed more glyphs of paralysis in the rage demon’s path.

Except it wasn’t moving. It seemed content to watch the battle, almost as though it was amused. I shot ice at it. Just a small burst. Just to see. I didn’t know what was wrong with this demon, why it was watching instead of fighting, but I didn’t want to risk anything.

I need not have been so cautious. As soon as my magic melted against the demon’s skin, it turned its massive, burning face to me and bellowed. I bellowed right back, a challenge for a challenge, confident that I could succeed in this battle. The creature started to move to me, but was caught quickly in my glyphs, and I sent waves of cold magic to destroy it.

I succeeded, of course. The rage demon was no great foe. The shades were hardly worth mentioning. By the time I turned around, the last shade was gone. Littlefoot trotted up to me, and I scratched his head as I glanced over him for injuries. A few small nicks. Easy fixes.

“You were a cat,” Cullen said, then, and I looked up to see him staring at me with wide eyes.

“Yes,” I answered. I hadn’t realized he would have such surprise at me performing magic. Then again, shapeshifting wasn’t exactly common, I supposed… unless you were a Witch of the Wilds. “I learned the art of shapeshifting from a friend.”

He didn’t say anything in reply. I couldn’t quite read his face, but he seemed uncomfortable. Then again, what more should I expect? After last year… No, I would be uncomfortable at unusual magics, too. I should have thought more. I should have realized. He shook his head and looked back at the dust covering Wilmond’s camp.

“I knew,” he said, instead, turning to Malia and ignoring me, ignoring this new information on just what I was capable of. “I knew he was involved in something sinister.” He was just going to ignore my abilities, then. Okay. “But this… Is it even possible?”

Malia clicked her tongue and sheathed her blades. “Do you think he was possessed?”

Cullen glanced at me, only the barest flitting of his eyes, but I saw it all the same. A little knife plunged into my soul. I had betrayed him somehow. I had failed. I was supposed to be proof that mages could be normal, but then I just had to go and shapeshift—I just had to go and destroy that last glimmer of hope he may have held! Dread Wolf take me.

“Normally we only worry that mages will fall victim to possession,” Cullen told Malia, ignoring me entirely once more. “I have heard of blood mages—or, or demons in solid form—who could summon others into unwilling hosts.” He stood tall, armor clanking faintly as it moved. “But I had not thought one of our own would be susceptible.”

Malia crossed her arms and deliberately looked to me. Cullen didn’t follow her gaze. I shook my head; this was not the time nor place to discuss what I had done. She rolled her eyes at me, but complied. “You shouldn’t have come alone,” she said, instead, almost like she were reprimanding one of her younger siblings.

“I am Knight-Captain Cullen,” he replied, and it sounded like a protest. Like he was trying to prove he would have been just fine without us, thanks. “I thank you for your assistance. I have been conducting an investigation of some of our recruits who have gone missing. Wilmond was the first to return. I… had hoped to confront him quietly. Out of sight.”

Ha.

I couldn’t listen anymore. Cullen and I may not have been friends, and in many ways I hardly knew the man he was now (though I was, ah, very familiar with the man he would become), but I had—I had hoped that maybe he would see me as an exception. Maybe I could help him recover sooner. Gods save me, but I just couldn’t keep my damn nose out of everyone’s business here. I knew too much. Maybe, if I really was forgetting, it would be a blessing. I wouldn’t do such stupid things all the time in misguided attempts to help.

I crouched down and preoccupied myself with Littlefoot—cleaning blood and dirt and sand from his fur, searching for any hidden cuts, generally reassuring myself that he was okay. He could sense my distress, and he quietly gave me little kisses and nudges to ground me.

By the time I’d brought myself back to some level of calm, Cullen had left. Malia and Fenris came over, their feet entering my vision just a moment before one of Malia’s gloved hands rested gently on my shoulder. “Vir’era?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

I glanced up with a smile that felt weak even to me. “Ir abelas. I…” How did I explain this?

“You need not explain yourself, Warden,” Fenris said. I blinked at him, having not expected such words to come from him, of all people. Perhaps that was stupid of me. “Can you stand?”

I nodded and did so. Littlefoot huffed loudly. “You gonna be alright?” Malia asked, frowning at me. She reached out and pushed some hair from my face. I wondered if she realized that she was mothering me. Probably not.

“I will. Don’t worry about me.” I straightened my back, trying to force my lips into a more convincing smile. “It could be worse.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes for a moment, but when I didn’t change my tune, she shrugged and grinned at me. “Good! Now, what do you boys say we check that brothel Cullen mentioned out, hm? I think we can get back to the city just in time for working hours.”

Fenris rolled his eyes at her with a little groan. Littlefoot sneezed. “Might as well,” I said. “We wouldn’t want this mess to get out of hand.”

 

At the Blooming Rose, Malia killed Idunna. I watched it happen and felt no remorse over the action. Was that wrong of me? I hoped not. Idunna had tried to kill us, I reasoned. It was an act of self-defense. Fenris certainly agreed with the action.

We were collectively too tired afterwards to find the blood mage hide-out and save Keran, the other missing Templar recruit. I returned to the clinic well after the sun had set, but despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep. Not for having allowed Idunna to be killed, which barely registered with me as anything I even should lose sleep over, but because I was troubled by my own fading memories.

Why was it getting harder to recall things? I didn’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice. I had never had a good memory, but certainly something so close to my heart should be second nature. Yet still it eluded me. I knew she had brown hair, that she was kind, that she was, of course, human, right? I had been human Before, I reminded myself. Of course my mother would have been human as well.

Should I go home? Surely this world would be just fine without my interference. Malia was strong and capable. Garrett, too. Surely I didn’t need to be here. I could leave my journal. I could find the eluvian. Touching it would take me home, right? Would any eluvian work?

I curled into a ball as these thoughts whirled through my mind. Littlefoot stretched out at my back. Oh, but I couldn’t just leave him. Maybe I could take him along with me. He was a good boy. He deserved it.

I didn’t belong here. Cullen would agree. I knew this as I knew that the sun warmed the Earth. He didn’t think I was a person anymore. How could I be a person when I could shed my skin for that of an animal, after all? I should leave and save everyone the trouble. Maybe Merrill would let me see the eluvian if I asked nicely. She didn’t need to know why.

Darkspawn chased me with swords when I finally gave in to the sandman. I ran and ran and ran, but I had no weapons. I couldn’t fight them. I ran and ran and ran until I fell through a trap and woke once more. Anders offered me a cup of weak elfroot tea. It’s all we had to drink. I accepted it without a word.

“Darkspawn?” he asked. I nodded. He understood that much. The Blight might be over, but we were Grey Wardens. We carried the taint forever. I felt a little less alone when he sat beside me on my cot, and it was not only because I could sense his presence through the taint. We drank in silence as light began to filter into Darktown. Work would start soon.

All three Hawke siblings marched through our doors not long after. I was starting in on the potions as Anders cleaned bandages. No one else had come to us yet, but it wouldn’t be long now. “Good morning, Wardens!” Garrett called, walking straight for Anders. Ser Pounce-a-Lot chirped at him, earning a friendly scratch on the head.

“Hello, Garrett,” Anders returned. He smiled brightly whenever he saw Garrett—just a little bit brighter than any of his other smiles, which already were becoming rare. It made my heart ache. Not so much of jealousy or envy, but… I knew too much. (And maybe, just maybe, I missed Nathaniel.)

Carver steered completely clear of the two men, apparently not desiring to be privy to more of their ridiculous flirting, and sat on an overturned bucket near me. Malia wavered briefly before wrinkling her nose and joining us.

“Aneth ara,” I said to the two of them. “You’re here early.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Carver bemoaned, and Malia flicked something at him. I didn’t quite see what—it’s not exactly wise to keep one’s eyes off of a potion too long while it’s brewing—but he didn’t sound pleased when it hit, whatever it was. Dirt, probably. Not much else she could pick up here.

“Don’t you start,” she warned. He huffed, but quieted down. “Anyway, Vir’era, we’re here for you. Or Anders, really, we’ll take whichever of you is willing to come, but you’re the one with Templar experience. And who’s less likely to get yourself captured by them.”

I stifled a snort. “Has Anders told you that he escaped the Circle seven times, or was that just a lucky guess?”

“What? You must be joking! Anders?” Malia pressed a hand against her chest and glanced over her shoulder at the man in question. He was too busy smiling at Garrett to notice. “Really?”

“Once he just swam away,” I confirmed. “Templars can’t really swim in their armor, you know. They’d sink right to the bottom, like—like little angry bricks, the pricks.” Carver groaned, covering his face in both hands with what sounded suspiciously like an exclamation of ‘not you too!’ or something similar. Malia cackled.

“And that is why I’d rather have you along. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Anders has been very nice so far, but you say funny things sometimes,” she said. When I blinked at her in mild astonishment—I hadn’t precisely expected to be called funny in any capacity—she laughed some more. “And you make the best faces, too!”

“I try,” I said. Which was partially true. Life was easier when I knew people liked me, for a whole host of reasons, but. Well. It was still unexpected. I furrowed my brows. “You still haven’t told me why you’re so early, though.”

She sighed loudly. “As long a day as yesterday was, today’s looking to be even longer,” she confessed. “Also, unrelated, but, Garrett and I were talking, and since you and Anders have been so helpful, we’re going to be sure to give you some of the money we collect. You’re not exactly making much at the free clinic you’re running, after all.”

I didn’t even think to refuse her offer. Not even to be polite. Frankly, we needed that money. For food and bandages especially. No good would come of anything if we continued as we were. We’d starve, I was sure of it. “Ma serannas,” I said. “I—thank you, Malia.”

She smiled. “Don’t mention it. Or, I mean, do, if you like. But you’re our friends, and you’ve been very helpful. Garrett says it’s the least we can do. Anyways, as soon as you’re done with that potion, pack a bag and we’ll leave. We’ve got blood mages to stop, a Templar to find, and an apostate to save. We’re booked!”

 

It was probably a good thing for the refugees, I figured, that Anders and I could switch off who was at the clinic while someone else helped the Hawkes. It was usually Anders, at least so far, but he was the better healer. And I did have more experience fighting, as Malia had implied.

Since we were already in Darktown, we started with the blood mages. Tarohne’s “clever hideout” was almost disappointingly easy to find. Apparently, the blood mages had made no friends among the refugees—perhaps some of them had been victims, as well as the Templars. I hoped not, but was grateful for the help regardless.

And it mostly went as expected. Enter hideout, get confronted by demons and skeletons, destroy demons and skeletons, find blood mages, be attacked by blood mages, kill blood mages. It was… Frankly, it was almost boring. That’s not the sort of thing I ever thought I’d think about fighting for my life and actually committing murder (even if it was arguably justified murder), but there you have it. Just another Tuesday. Or, well, whatever day of the week it was.

Keran was easy to find. There weren’t any other victims that we could see in the hideout, and once everything trying to kill us was dead, no one else came peering around corners. By logical deduction (and also because I was already aware of it), Keran had to be the man floating in the mysterious golden light that really made little sense from a physics perspective, but was magic, so physics had no place in it, anyway. Er, probably.

Garrett walked toward him slowly. Malia stood back, perhaps wisely. As Garrett got close, the spell containing Keran dissipated, and he fell to the ground. Garrett helped him up, and Keran looked around with wide eyes. “Is it… is it over?” he asked.

“Keran?” Garrett said.

“Yes,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck and head like he was trying to shake off a bug. “That’s my name. Oh, thank the Maker! I thought He had abandoned me.”

“I never…” Carver murmured from near my side, startling me. “I never understood why people could be so terrified of mages. Our family had two. You, Garrett. Bethany.” He shuddered. “But this? Andraste was right to warn against magic.”

The words burned my skin. I pretended they didn’t bother me, but to hear such a thing… It was never easy. I had certainly drawn the short stick upon entry to Thedas. Why couldn’t I have been normal? Even a non-mage Dalish would be preferable! Hell, even Tal-Vashoth might be better!

“You think the Templars should take me, Carver? Is that what you’re saying?” Garrett asked, glaring over his shoulder in a surprisingly angry move.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Boys, please,” Malia said, putting herself between them. She was just tall enough that it wasn’t entirely useless, though both Garrett and Carver ( _especially Carver_ ) were still taller. “As much as I’m certain the entertainment is welcome, we actually do have a job to do.”

Keran nodded at her with a smile. I think he appreciated her interference as much as I did. “What happens now?”

Apparently determined not to give either Garrett or Carver a second more to brew the chance of a fight, Malia took over here. “What do you remember of how you got here?”

“I-I was with a lady,” Keran began with a blush, and told us what he knew. It didn’t amount to much more than what we suspected, though it did have extra nightmare fuel, if any of them were missing some. I certainly wasn’t. (Darkspawn. Archdemons. _Broodmothers._ )

Malia turned to me, which was less surprising than it may have been a month ago. “Vir’era, I know you’re more an expert on darkspawn than demons, but you wouldn’t happen to know if he’s in the clear, would you?”

I did, of course, but I couldn’t just say it. They’d hardly believe me. I wouldn’t believe me, were I in their shoes. “One moment.” I stepped forward and examined Keran. No cuts on his skin that I could see. Blood on the ground, but it could have been someone else’s. I put a hand against his head and sent a healing pulse. It wouldn’t tell me if there was a demon, but he could probably use it. I turned back. “He’s safe.”

“You’re certain?” Carver asked.

I nodded. “I would not risk lives with this.” I wouldn’t. (Oh, but I was risking them in other areas! Corypheus, for one. Creators help me. Surely my soul was doomed for such actions.)

He seemed satisfied. So did everyone else. “We’ll help you get back, then,” Garrett said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“Don’t tell the Templars,” Keran begged, quietly. “I don’t know what they’d do to me.”

“They need to know that others might be compromised, but we can vouch for you.” Garrett put one of Keran’s arms over his shoulders and began to walk. We found his armor among the various things the blood mages had stored. If Keran noticed Malia pocketing the heavy-looking coin purse she found in a chest, he said nothing.

 

At the Gallows, Keran’s sister was waiting with Cullen. I didn’t question why she was there. It all seemed destined at this point—like there were certain things that would simply never change, no matter how trivial they seemed. Keran was able to walk to her with far more stability than he’d had back in Darktown. A short rest, it seemed, was all that he’d really needed. I hadn’t even tried to heal him more.

“Blood mages have infiltrated your ranks,” Garrett said to Cullen. He may have left his staff elsewhere, but I still felt uneasy that a likely-known apostate was speaking so openly to the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. With the way Cullen felt about mages now… “They’ve been implanting your recruits with demons.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in horror, and he recoiled at the words. “Sweet blood of Andraste!”

Keran’s sister flinched back as well, away from her brother. “D-demons? Did you say something about the recruits and demons?”

“I didn’t want to tell you, Macha,” Keran admitted. “They… they were horrible. Those mages see the rest of us as ants to be crushed. They won’t stop until they’ve destroyed the Chantry and the Templars forever!”

“Not all mages are like that,” Garrett insisted.

“Garrett, not now,” Carver said. Malia put a hand on Garrett’s arm, pulling him a step back. I wished I could fade into nothing, but Garrett’s words had sent both Cullen and Keran’s eyes to me. Perhaps I should have been grateful they did not look to Garrett himself, but it was hard to muster such kindness under their scrutiny.

Cullen pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “True, not every mage gives into temptation, but none are ever free of it! At any time, any mage could become a monster, from the lowest apprentice to the most seasoned enchanters. Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me.”

“Surely that’s a little harsh,” Macha suggested, and I wanted to thank her. Cullen gave her such an unimpressed stare… She deserved praise for enduring it.

“They are weapons,” he maintained. “They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique!”

Malia stood forward some, grabbing all the attention once more. “There’s fault on both sides. We must find a way to live in peace.”

Cullen sighed and I swore he glanced to me again, but perhaps I was just dreaming. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps mages need better education as to why the Chantry functions as it does. Perhaps they would not go against the will of Andraste herself.” He gave a single nod. “I will look into it.

“For now, Keran,” he said, turning to the recruit we’d saved. “Unless it is proven you are free of demons, I must strip you of your commission immediately.”

Macha began to protest, but I beat her to the punch. “He’s safe,” I said. All eyes spun to me immediately. I fought the urge to shrink into my armor like turtle into its shell. Littlefoot pressed comfortingly against my legs. “I… Um, I checked him. He hosts no demons.”

Cullen peered at me. “You are certain of this, Warden? I know it is not a Grey Warden’s area of expertise.” He called me Warden. Not Vir’era. I was something else to him now. I was no longer Vir’era from the tower. I was just a Warden mage. An outsider in Kirkwall that needed to be watched for corruption. Damn it all.

“I am. I was not always a Warden.” Once, I was human and without magic. I didn’t have to worry about being taken to the Gallows or made Tranquil. It was a game, once. I was safer then. (Safer and lonelier, but were these friendships worth that risk?)

“He can stay with the Order,” Garrett added.

“I see.” Cullen turned back to the older Hawke siblings, ignoring me once more. Perhaps that was my destiny now: ignored except when bringing new information to light, or when a mage must be glared at. “You have done much for us by stopping these blood mages. I will heed your request. If he has shown no sign of demonic possession in ten years’ time, Keran will become eligible for full knighthood.”

I thought it was a pitiful idea. Hardly as though he’d listened. Keran was safe. Was there need for further watch? Yet also I knew why Cullen was so very careful, and I could not blame him. It just… it hurt a little. He was the first person to not trust my words with abandon. Maybe it was a good thing.

“Thank you, serah,” Macha said, approaching the Hawkes. “Again. But without a full knighthood, Keran’s pay is so small, I do not know if I can reward you as you deserve…”

With surprising respect, considering the action, Cullen interrupted, “I will take care of that, miss.” He pulled some coins (I didn’t see which—sovereigns? silver?) from a small purse at his waist and handed them to Malia. “You have done the Order a great service. We will not forget it.”

“Anytime! And if you ever need help, don’t hesitate to ask us. Seriously,” she said, “we’re jobless. Pay us to do things.”

“That’s enough of that!” Garrett declared, linking one bulky arm through Malia’s only slightly slimmer one. “Have a nice day, Ser Cullen. Carver, if you would be so kind…”

Carver went to Malia’s other side and took her other arm. As they marched her away, I scurried after. This was the last place I wanted to be left behind—especially after the little revelation yesterday only being reinforced just now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL ALMOST FORGOT IT WAS FRIDAY AGAIN  
> FOR DIFFERENT REASONS THIS TIME  
> SORRY  
> I LOVE YOU


	6. Chapter 6

Our journey to find Feynriel began next. (Well, after a short lunch.) It was a bit easier than finding Keran—Garrett knew precisely which cave the slavers had holed up in, thanks to his investigations in Darktown. We needed only to make our way to it, and we did as much by mid-afternoon.

The siblings didn’t even try to negotiate with the slavers. As soon as the man holding Feynriel was in sight, Malia killed him with a knife to the face. I cast a quick shield over the party, and then another, slightly stronger one over Feynriel. He seemed to notice my magic, glancing to me in surprise as it wrapped over him, but I didn’t have time to linger. Carver was large, and his greataxe made him an imposing figure. Even so, there was at least thrice the number of slavers as of us.

Littlefoot went under Carver’s first swing and locked his jaws on a distracted man’s ankle. Malia ducked around the other way, and I lost track of her. Garrett jumped onto a convenient nearby rock and began shooting spells at the slavers towards the edges—the few archers they had, and one unfortunate mage.

I was too short to mimic him, and Carver was too large for me to fire anything without risking splash damage. So, I ducked into my mabari form and made like Littlefoot. Together, the two of us herded the slavers into as tight a pack as possible, nipping a hand here or an ass there to keep them in line. At least one man’s sword was dropped and kicked away, and I heard the sound of wood breaking in a scuffle, which likely meant Littlefoot had broken a bow. Quietly, I hoped he’d also broken someone’s bone.

One of them managed to land a hit on me, slicing a thin line along my back. It couldn’t have been too deep, though (likely thanks to my shielding), as the pain wasn’t what I’d call intense. Still, it did slow me down. Carver kept slicing away, and Malia reappeared in time to parry a blow aimed at Littlefoot.

I felt my shields become reinforced suddenly—a glance over Carver’s shoulder showed Garrett with a thumbs-up. He must have dug around to find whatever spell I’d used. I’d have to thank him later.

A foot shot out when I was distracted and hit me in the side of the face. Thanks to the stronger shields, though, it did little more than push my gaze in a new direction. I corrected for that quickly enough to dodge the next kick. Malia caught that foot with a thrown dagger, and the man it belonged to howled like a dog.

The crowd of slavers had thinned considerably. A nervous-smelling one fell as he scrambled back over the body of his compatriot. I lunged for his neck, sinking my teeth into the flesh with what could almost be relish. I think he tried to cry out, but his larynx had already been entirely crushed in my jaws. He scratched at me with weaponless fingers, desperate, and I growled until he stopped.

He was as good as dead. I tore his throat out anyways, just to be sure, and dropped it in his hands that he might feel it in his last moments of awareness. He deserved no better for his chosen occupation. If there was one thing I hated most in Thedas, it was slavery.

Garrett gave me a concerned look as I shifted back and walked to where he’d helped Feynriel climb down from the ledge. I gave a small smile, and he grimaced. “You’ve got, ah,” he said, motioning around my mouth.

I lifted a hand to check. Oh, right. Blood. From the slaver. The one I’d just killed with my bare teeth. Right. I wrinkled my nose at it and brought out my waterskin to pour some over my face and hopefully clean up a little. Feynriel looked, to his credit, only somewhat horrified. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

Blinking at him, I considered my answer. Simple would be best, right? “He was a slaver,” I said. “He would gladly have enslaved me, given half a chance. He tried to do as much to you. No one deserves such a fate, and far too many of our people have been forced into it.”

“Oh.” Maybe he agreed. Maybe he didn’t. It was hard to say, but at the very least, he accepted my answer as reasonable, judging by the nod he gave. Then he looked closer at me, at my face and doubtlessly my vallaslin. “You… you’re Dalish, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Then…” He looked around at the others, though they were very obviously human. “You’re not here to take me to the Circle, are you?”

Garrett made a face like he’d just been forced to eat dog shit. Malia made one like she’d just smelled the dog shit Garrett had been fed. Carver… Carver groaned and cast his eyes heavenward, likely sending some small prayer or another to the Maker. Perhaps it was best if I took over, then. “No,” I told him, making all three Hawke siblings blink at me in surprise. “There’s another option for you, if you would have it.”

“The Dalish,” he whispered, as reverently as if we were in a Chantry or a temple. His eyes were large as they stared at me, full of hope. “You’d take me there?”

I gave him a small smile. “Yes. We know the Keeper of the clan currently at Sundermount. You may be human, but your mother is Dalish. It wouldn’t be an easy life, mind you—even the most open-minded of the People harbors great distrust for shemlen, but… They would take you in. This I know.”

“Yes. Yes, please, please take me to the Keeper.” He looked as if he wanted to hug me, but wisely chose not to—likely because I was covered in dirt, sand, and blood.

Speaking of which. Now that the danger was over and Feynriel’s destination decided, my back decided to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that it was, in fact, still injured. I focused my limited healing magics where I could feel the pain until it dissipated into nothingness, but without any way to check on the wound and see how far it had healed, I couldn’t be sure how well the magic worked. I probably had yet another scar.

“Well,” Malia said, even as I began checking Littlefoot over for injuries. “I guess we’re going hiking. Let’s get out of the nasty cave with literal dead people in it and start walking, shall we? If we’re lucky, we might even avoid the raiders!”

Of course, we didn’t manage to actually avoid the raiders. We did avoid the Tal-Vashoth, though, which was something. Well, it was maybe something. The raiders and Tal-Vashoth likely claimed different parts of the Wounded Coast. Encountering both in one day (let alone one afternoon) would mean one was specifically looking for trouble, rather than merely a victim of chance.

Feynriel was smart enough to stay back while we handled them, though. He wasn’t completely useless in combat, but he was a mostly-untrained apostate, and therefore simply not of notable worth while fighting, either. He later expressed surprise that I was a Grey Warden, considering how reclusive the Dalish were, and this prompted Malia to brag about how I wasn’t just a Grey Warden, but one of the Grey Wardens.

“You mean you fought at the Hero of Ferelden’s side?” Feynriel asked, awe in his voice once again. I blushed, a small amount of pride swelling in myself. I had done that, hadn’t I?

“Yes. He was from Clan Sabrae—a hunter. He was an expert shot with a bow,” I said.

“I’ve heard stories about him, from refugees and other people. But they don’t talk about the others as much, except the new King and Queen sometimes, or the Warden-Commander.” He leaned forward. “I didn’t know there were any other elves with him. Except his lover—wait, you aren’t his lover, are you?”

Before I could answer, Carver squawked, and then stared at me. “You aren’t, right? I mean, you’d’ve told—ah, told us.”

I tilted my head. “No, Zevran’s his lover. He’s an Antivan Crow, or he used to be. I told you about him before, didn’t I, Carver?”

“Yeah, didn’t he, Carver?” Malia echoed, poking her brother with one boot. Carver turned bright red, which was unfamiliar when Merrill wasn’t around.

“I—I was just checking! That’s all. Curiosity and all that.”

Needless to say, I spent a lot of time answering questions that night. (Again, though I didn’t mind so much.) The lies started to feel like truth. I couldn’t remember which was which for some. Was it a lie that my brother would sing around campfires with me, or was it the truth? Had I ever even gone camping Before? I could remember the smell of smoke and stories around bright orange flames, but were there tents or aravels behind us? Aravels existed there, right? They had to, certainly! Though if I’d been human…

 

We woke early to climb Sundermount to the Dalish camp. Carver was up first again, though even Feynriel had risen before me. Maybe he was excited. Like a kid on Christmas. The word sounded foreign even in my head, but I knew it was right. _Christmas_. The Christian celebration of the birth of Jesus. Their Andraste. Or close enough, anyway.

(As soon as we returned to the city, I would see Merrill. I would ask to see the eluvian. I needed to know. I needed… I needed to go, maybe, to become myself again, whoever that was.)

It seemed to take forever and yet no time at all for us to reach the camp this time. We did stop for lunch when Malia began to whine, though only Feynriel really seemed reluctant to do so. Still, we reached Clan Sabrae with hours left yet until sunset.

The hunters who stood guard by the statues of Fen’Harel recognized us immediately. They froze and stared at me with caution and at the Hawkes with open suspicion. Feynriel received similarly untrusting looks. Still, they greeted us politely. “Andaran atish’an, Grey Warden, Family Hawke. What business have you here?”

I gestured for Feynriel to come close. “I wish to present Feynriel to Keeper Marethari. He needs training with his magic, but would not go to the Circle.”

“Shemlen?” the first hunter asked, not the one who had greeted us, frowning at me. “Banal!”

“Feynrielamamae dara Arianni—dara Elvhen,” I insisted.

“Seth’lin!”

Feynriel seemed to understand at least the gist of what was being said, but I doubted he knew more than that. He stepped forward. “Please,” he begged, “let me speak with the Keeper. I know I’m human, but my mother was Dalish, and I know she can help me. I don’t want to go to the Circle!”

The second hunter drew up his eyebrows and gave Feynriel the most sympathetic look I thought he would ever get from the People. “Alright, shemlen,” he said, despite the glare of his partner. “Come. The Keeper will decide.”

We followed them in. I heard Malia talking quietly with Carver, and Garrett hushing her. Keeper Marethari looked up as though she had almost expected our presence. “Vir’era, Family Hawke, andaran atish’an,” she greeted, though after this greeting she began speaking the common tongue out of respect to the Hawkes. “What brings you to me today?”

“Keeper, this is Feynriel,” I said. “He is a mage, and needs training outside the Circle. We were hoping you could help.”

“I see.” She came close, examining Feynriel. He stood a head taller than her, but I could feel his nerves and nearly see him sweating as she looked him over. “What seems to be the problem, da’len?”

“Demons,” he blurted, and then began to explain in a generally more composed manner. The Keeper listened intently, nodding along and occasionally asking him questions for further information. I saw Malia looking around the camp as we waited, and occasionally she’d nudge Carver to point at something. Mostly he humored her. Sometimes he just elbowed her back.

Something seemed to settle over my back. I glanced behind me and met the gaze of the elven woman from last time. I wracked my mind for her name. M-something… M… M… Mhe… Megan? No, that was a human name. But it was similar enough, I was sure. She glared at me and beckoned me to come to her.

I swallowed, unsure if I wanted to or not. She was the one who had been so angry with me last time—the one who had begged Merrill to stay. But I found myself slipping away from the Keeper and Feynriel regardless to speak with her.

She waited until I stood right in front of her to speak, frowning at me so very angrily. “Who will you take this time?” she demanded.

I winced. “B-banal.” She snorted. Littlefoot snorted at her in response. “Dirthavara!”

Her eyes narrowed, and she scrutinized me closely, sparing only a half-glance to Littlefoot. “Say I believe you. Have you sent a letter to Theron?”

“To Theron…?” I whispered, belatedly remembering my promise to do as much for the clan. I grimaced. “Ir abelas. I haven’t. I… I don’t have an address that he can send a letter back to.”

“Why not?”

“I do not live in the city, not really. I am right now running a free clinic for refugees in Darktown, but that is no address. No letters would easily be delivered there.”

She crossed her arms and jerked her head behind me. “What of the shemlen?”

“The—I could not ask that of them!” I protested. It was a weak protest, though. Why shouldn’t I? In many ways, it would make far more sense. And yet, I cringed at even the thought of imposing in such a way upon the Hawke family. Plus, I didn’t trust Gamlen enough to leave my mail untampered.

“Why not?” she asked, again. I winced and glanced back at the Hawkes. Carver was distinctly uncomfortable. He stood so tense it seemed he might vibrate. Garrett and Malia projected much calmer airs—though Malia’s was notably loose and relaxed where Garrett seemed simply respectful, waiting for the Keeper to finish speaking with Feynriel.

Malia caught my eyes and raised her eyebrows in silent question. I shook my head ever so slightly, just enough for her to shrug and go back to staring around at everything with a visible mix of curiosity and boredom.

“They are your friends, are they not?” The archer glared at them. She didn’t think much of the Hawkes—whether because they had effectively taken away Merrill or because they were shemlen, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both. She seemed likely to hold grudges.

“They are,” I answered. “But…”

She huffed at me, completely unimpressed. Something flickered across her face, some emotion that made her lips purse and her eyes seem far away for a moment. But it was gone soon, replaced by a stony façade that intensified the dark shade of her vallaslin. It was Dirthamen’s, I noticed. Falon’Din’s reflection. Maybe there was something more to it. Theron had had Falon’Din’s vallaslin, and she seemed to be his friend.

Or maybe it was a coincidence, and I was being ridiculous trying to read more than there was. I had to remember this wasn’t a fictional world anymore. Things like that could easily be simple coincidence.

An arm wrapped around my shoulder and I nearly jumped from my skin in surprise. Malia appeared with her bright smile, paying no mind to the shock she’d caused me. “What’s going on over here?” she asked.

“Nothing that concerns you, shemlen.”

“Ah-ah-ah. No one gets to make my friends so nervous without my permission, you see.” She gave her most charming smile, but received only a flat stare in return. “I’m rather protective of them, and while I’m certain Vir’era can hold his own in a battle, he seems to need help right about now.”

The archer’s eyebrow twitched and I thought she might start something, but her answer took me entirely by surprise. Perhaps I’d misjudged her. “Then you should know he has no way of receiving messages.”

“Messages?” Malia echoed, and turned her face to me.

“Um. Y-yes. I… have friends who I write letters to, but since I’ve come to Kirkwall, it’s been… er, well, difficult. Sometimes impossible?” I didn’t mean for the last sentence to be a question, but things happen, I guess.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Yes. Why.” The archer smirked at me, like she’d won some victory. Littlefoot sneezed, but we all ignored him.

Swallowing, I scuffed one boot against the ground. “It’s my problem, n-not yours.”

Malia squeezed my shoulders. “Oh, you are just precious, you know that?” she said, then laughed, an easy sound that invited people to join in. “We’ll fix this. With who all you’re likely writing to, I wouldn’t trust any letters within ten meters of dear Uncle Gamlen and his sticky fingers—it’s a terrible issue, you know, but not hereditary, thank the Maker—but we can’t have you out of touch with… whoever it is you send letters to. Who _do_ you send letters to?”

“Friends?” I tried. She laughed again.

“And your friends are people like the Hero or the King and Queen of Ferelden!” It was true, so I couldn’t just deny it, but she made it sound like I was someone important. I wasn’t. I was just Vir’era, someone lost a bit too far from home.

But Feynriel and the Keeper were finished talking now, and we were called back to discuss a few of the particulars before we left. Garrett promised to tell Arianni. Feynriel promised to study hard. We all promised something.

And for the first time, I left Clan Sabrae without one of its members at my side.

 

The Dalish archer never gave me her name before I left. I don’t know if she forgot, but I certainly forgot to ask. I was preoccupied; I felt slowly less and less welcome in Thedas, and my memories, as they became more jumbled and distant, started to worry me ever more. There was only one solution, really:

I needed to leave.

I needed to go to Merrill, to go to the eluvian, and go back home. That was the obvious solution, wasn’t it? Dalish weren’t welcome in human cities, elves were reviled by most shemlen, mages were distrusted on the whole, and shapeshifters—they were virtually unheard-of. Surely I was thought to be little better than a demon.

And I had betrayed people. Cullen, for one—but also that archer (perhaps all of Clan Sabrae) and Alistair. Alistair, who was my friend, who had seen I had only good intentions and chose to forgive me despite it all. And those were only the betrayals I knew of! Who knew what other consequences my desperate actions, my strange knowledge had had? Who else mourned because of me?

However, my confidence didn’t last long. I couldn’t betray Anders by leaving him to deal with the clinic without a word. Nor could I disappear without telling my other friends, spread to the winds as they were, that I would be gone. Mia would throw a fit, I was certain… even though I’d never met her face-to-face.

So though nothing felt real and I knew I was dissociating more each day, I let the Hawkes walk me back to the clinic, and I thanked them for allowing my diversion for Feynriel. And then I transformed into a cat and curled with Ser Pounce-a-Lot atop a threadbare cot, Littlefoot warm at my back. I was stuck here a while longer. Until my courage or desperation could remanifest (and who knew when that would happen).

 

But I had another nightmare, a terrifying dream of darkspawn and shemlen both working together to destroy me, and that made my mind up. Despite my promises (to write Theron, to help with the clinic, to watch Anders), I didn’t want to wear out my welcome in this world. I was a mage. Someday, somewhere, somehow, I knew I would become unwelcome, if I was not already. This was simply the fate of all mages, from my own understanding of the lore.

So I didn’t let myself linger on my unfinished business here. If I did, my sense of responsibility might keep me locked here, even if everything else in me begged to leave, begged to find some way to return home. I had to go now, before I could change my mind, and that’s what found me outside Merrill’s door in the Alienage as soon as the sun had risen.

“Vir’era! Littlefoot! Oh, this is unexpected!” she said when she opened the door, but she stepped aside and waved me in regardless. “Come in, come in. I’m sorry it’s so dirty. If I’d known you were coming, I would have picked up more.”

It wasn’t dirty. Or, at least, not nearly as dirty as she seemed to think. The clinic was worse, of course, but that was Darktown. I was certain Gamlen’s house would be worse, too, and that was in the human part of Lowtown, which was… arguably cleaner.

“Ir abelas. I simply needed to speak with you,” I told her. I tried to smile. She smiled back, but her eyebrows were drawn up, and I don’t think I was very convincing, either.

“Of course, of course!” We sat at the lone table in her little house. My leg bounced nervously, and Littlefoot gave me a worried look. “What is it, lethallin?”

Had I earned such a title? Probably not. We barely knew each other. Or, at least, she barely knew me. But she was just so kind… I breathed in deeply, steeling myself. She didn’t know I knew about the eluvian, and it’s not like I could just surprise her with everything I’d told Theron, but—oh, fuck it, if this worked, I’d be gone anyway. “I… want to see the eluvian.”

She froze, eyes wide and face still smiling. “I-ir abelas, lethallin. I don’t think I heard you right.”

“The eluvian,” I whispered, casting my eyes down. “The one th-that… I need to see it.”

I heard her sigh as I examined my own fingers, laced together tightly in my lap. My knuckles were white. I forced my hands apart and saw small crescents in my skin where my nails had dug in. They were bright white from the pressure. Soon they’d be red.

Merrill’s chair scraped back, and I jerked my head up at her. She wasn’t looking at me, but further into the house, face clearly apprehensive. When she felt my gaze, she turned her large green eyes to me and nodded slowly, though the line between her brows and the downward pull of her lips did not lessen. “Okay.”

Barely restraining myself from jumping up, I stood from the chair and followed her down the short hall to her bedroom. The eluvian was there, covered by a sheet that Merrill pulled down slowly. Reverently. Like this was some beautiful miracle, not a nightmare in physical form. Littlefoot whined.

The mirror was broken. I’d known it would be. That’s why she’d had a shard, back when she first turned to blood magic. But I hadn’t expected just the extent of the damage, and I stared in mild despair, but didn’t draw closer than the bedroom door.

“Here it is.” Her voice was hollow, like listening through a tube. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t move. “I’ve been… trying to restore it.”

Some part of me remembered myself enough to nod at her words, but the rest kept just staring. This could—it might take me home. I’d no longer be a disappointment of a Grey Warden, or a burden on people like Malia and Garrett. I could disappear just as surely as most people probably wished I would. As I sometimes wished I would.

Merrill didn’t speak again, which was unusual. She didn’t try to defend herself for keeping the mirror, didn’t explain what she was doing. Maybe my mood had affected her, too. Something somber seemed to blanket the entire room as I slowly pushed one foot forward; not even Littlefoot made a sound.

I could feel the eluvian. In multiple ways. There was a great sense of magic coming from it, like an aura, and I was certain Merrill could feel that, too. But more than that, I could feel the corruption, the way the Blight had wound its terrible fingers into every crevice of the once-grand mirror. It wasn’t the same kind of feeling I got for darkspawn. Those were alive, in some interpretation, but the eluvian…

No, the eluvian wasn’t alive, and the Blight held inanimate objects very differently from how it held those which lived. It pulsed in creatures, it itched and scratched there—but in things, no, in things it just oozed. Like a sludge slipping against my very soul, and it was only stronger for the eluvian’s magic. How Merrill had managed to do anything with the eluvian and not become ill with Blightsickness the way I had, the way Theron had—blood magic was certainly powerful, if it could do even that.

I stepped in again. The corruption in the mirror was nearly tangible, even though I could see that there were several shards that had been entirely cleansed. I imagined that it could recognize me. As I drew closer, I peered into the empty glass. Most of it was slightly warped. The parts still corrupted by the Blight were the worst, with shadows that made no sense.

When I looked closer at the clearest shards, I thought I could see something. I didn’t know what. Something. I reached out a hand to—

“Don’t!” Merrill shouted, breaking the moment and grabbing my hand. Her eyes were very wide. I could almost hear her heart pounding, could almost feel Littlefoot’s hostile growls. He hadn’t followed me into the room. “You—you’re not protected from it!”

I blinked at her. “I am a Grey Warden,” I said. “I’m immune to the corruption. I could bathe in the blood of darkspawn and come out no worse for wear.” She started to continue protesting, not quite reassured, and I put my free hand over hers. “Merrill. I’ll be fine.” A lie, maybe. I didn’t know if I’d be fine. “I need to do this.”

“I can’t let you,” she said. “It’s still too corrupted, and even if you are a Grey Warden—I don’t know what it would do! Fixing this much has been hard enough. Please, please, don’t.”

“Merrill…” I clenched my jaw. But she was right, at least in part. I didn’t know what would happen if someone disturbed the eluvian. Last time, it cast out such great corruption that it turned Tamlen to a ghoul and nearly killed Theron—plus whatever it had done to create me, to nearly kill me in the process.

I almost stopped. I almost stepped away. But then a portion of a song, something that seemed familiar to me, like a snippet of a tune from a past life, hummed from the mirror. Merrill didn’t hear it. Just me. And I tore my hand from Merrill and slapped the mirror, heedless of its cracks and shards, heedless of her scream or Littlefoot’s barks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _banal_ \- general negation  
>  _Feynrielamamae dara Arianni—dara Elvhen_ \- feynriel's mom is arianni--is elvhen (constructed by me)  
>  _seth'lin_ \- thin blood, an insult (aimed at arianni here, as they wouldn't consider feynriel elvhen; constructed  & found on the wiki)  
>  _andaran atish'an_ \- formal greeting: 'enter this place in peace'  
>  _da'len_ \- little one  
>  _dirthavara_ \- i promise (constructed by me)  
>  _lethallin_ \- endearment for close male friend, generally used only among clan members  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i'm sorry


	7. free pain with your purchase of regret

I pressed my hand against the broken eluvian, heedless of the shards that split my skin and spilled my blood. Littlefoot barked loudly in the background, the only sound in the little house. My heart beat hard and fast. I stared at my hand against the eluvian.

Nothing happened. Desperate, I pressed harder. Blood trickled through the cracks below my hand, though I felt no pain. My breath hitched. “Fen’Harel enansal!”

“Vir’era…” A hand pulled against my shoulder. Merrill’s, probably. I shrugged it off, stepped closer to the eluvian. Both my hands were on it now. I couldn’t remember doing that.

“Fen’Harel enansal!” I cried again. That was the password, right? The one Briala made?

Still, nothing happened. I let my forehead drop against the glass of a tainted piece. No reflection met my eyes, though my sight was so blurry with tears that I might not have noticed even if there were. But this was an eluvian, even if it was broken, and such things never did show a reflection, anyway.

Littlefoot had stopped barking. He was still growling; I could feel the vibrations of his anger in my soul. I sobbed and slid to my knees, my head falling back to stare at the mirror. It betrayed nothing, standing just as foreboding and impersonal as when I first saw it. If not for the two bloody trails on its surface where my hands had touched, I could almost believe that nothing had happened.

Merrill sat next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I gave in to her comfort, let her pull my hands from the glass. An echo of a song, something old but not forgotten, slipped from the eluvian into me. I couldn’t remember what it was about, or the tune, or any of the words, but I remembered my mother singing it to me when I was little. It was a lullaby, maybe. And if it wasn’t, she made it one.

Tears burned my cheeks, almost as painful as the cuts I now felt on my palms and fingers. I cried pitifully as Merrill healed my flesh. Littlefoot whimpered behind us and finally dared enter the room so that he could nose his way under one of my arms.

And so it was that I let my heart break with Littlefoot in my lap and Merrill at my side. A little shame filled me, at letting her see me like this, because she didn’t know me that well, and she deserved so much better, but mostly I just felt sorry for myself. I was allowed to cry for a while, I reasoned. I’d just lost everything.

 

I fell asleep at some point. Or maybe I passed out. There’s not a lot of difference between the two, really, but when I woke up, I was in Merrill’s bed, my face pressed into Littlefoot’s fur. He reeked of Darktown. Somehow, it was comforting.

The house was silent but for Littlefoot’s quiet snores. I lifted my head and blinked around. The eluvian had been covered again, though it had not moved. I was tempted to try again, to touch its surface and whisper Briala’s password into it, but there was no point. It was only 9:31 Dragon, I told myself. Briala would not so much as think of that password for years yet.

As I laid my head over Littlefoot’s chest, taking comfort in the sound of his breathing, Merrill came into the room. I almost didn’t notice. She was taking great care to be silent, balancing a tray with tea carefully and tiptoeing into the room.

I just watched, unable to bring myself to say anything in greeting. She set the tray on a rickety little table before turning to me and jumping a little. “Oh! Oh, you’re awake. Ir abelas, I didn’t know.” With a tiny smile, she asked, “How do you feel?”

I stared at her for a second, then looked away. No words could quite sum up how I felt at that moment. Or maybe I just felt like that, like no words, like nothing.

“Ah.” Merrill shuffled around, and I heard her pour tea. “Do you like sugar in your tea?” I managed to nod a little, but I still didn’t look at her. There was a sound of liquid being stirred for a moment, and then she took my hand and pressed a warm cup into it. “Even if you don’t want to drink any, that’s fine, but the warmth should do you good.”

She was taking care of me. The warm cup felt nice in my hand—just a bit too hot, just enough that it was almost uncomfortable, but wouldn’t burn my fingers. Steam curled up off the tea. I could only just see it.

“Why did you try to use the mirror?” Merrill asked.

My eyes shot to her again. Her face was drawn with what seemed like worry, and she looked paler than usual. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Not while I could see her face, her terrible confusion. So, coward that I am, I let my eyes drop to the tea once more. It had always helped not to look at someone when answering them. Like with Loghain.

“I want to go home,” I whispered to my cup. But elves have good hearing, and Merrill didn’t miss my words. I wasn’t sure if I had wanted her to.

“Where’s that?”

It was reminiscent of a session with my therapist. Maybe that should have made me even more homesick, but mostly it just made things easier. I’d been gone too long. “Somewhere far, far away. I…”

One pale hand fluttered down over my own. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Merrill murmured, and when I looked up at her face again, my vision was warped with tears. “I just ask questions without thinking sometimes.”

“I don’t belong here,” I blurted.

She frowned. “But why not? You’re a Grey Warden, and you’re helping people, and you’re very good at it. Much better than me, anyhow.”

It was true, at least in part, but… “No one wants a Dalish mage.” I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them, because Merrill was a Dalish mage, too, but it was too late, and the damage was done.

“Malia and Garrett do. Anders does.” She squeezed my hand. “Even Fenris seems to like you, and he hates magic.” I wasn’t sure that I believed that statement—he certainly treated me better than her or Anders, but I was neither a blood mage nor an abomination. I was just… I was just Vir’era, the lost little boy from the forest.

“I…” My throat swelled up and my tears started to flow more freely. I remembered the song I could have sworn the mirror had sung to me—the one that wasn’t from the darkspawn taint, the one that was from my past. Or, I remembered hearing it. The song itself continued to elude me, taunting me just beyond my memory. My tears burned my eyes, scarred my face.

“Oh, lethallin,” Merrill murmured, and the next thing I knew, she was hugging me close. “I don’t know what the mirror showed you, but it was a lie. You must believe that. I haven’t—I haven’t finished purifying it, and it’s broken. Nothing good can come of it yet.”

Maybe she was right. “I just want to go home.”

She squeezed me tighter. “I do, too.”

I never expected such an admission. Merrill was—she wasn’t conventionally strong, but she was so determined, so certain in her own actions… It was jarring to know that she had her regrets, even now, so very early on. She’d barely even left.

But maybe she was just as stuck as I was. I wrapped my own arms around her, careful of the tea, and cried into her shoulder with abandon. Her own tears wetted my robes. Littlefoot pushed between us, insisting that he be included.

I felt horrible still, felt numb and drained. But I had some kind of closure, at least, and maybe that was for the best. I had lost everything that once was mine. I had nowhere to go back to, had no way to get back. All that was left for me was here in Thedas.

 

Later, after we composed ourselves, we sat in Merrill’s main room. A fresh pot of tea was steeping (the other had over-steeped and gone cold, so she threw it out). Merrill told me a few stories of her clan, mostly just little anecdotes, mostly about Theron and Tamlen and Mheganni, the archer from the other day.

“…and ooh, Mheganni was so cross with Tamlen! She never got cross with him, not for long, so it was almost scary, because this time she really was. Theron had to hold her back so she wouldn’t hit him.” Merrill laughed quietly. I could hear the longing in her voice, in the wistful little sighs she might not even know she made periodically.

“That sounds like Theron,” I murmured.

“Doesn’t it?” She smiled into her cup of tea. If we hadn’t just cried ourselves dry, I think she may have shed a tear. As it was, she simply sighed again. “I wish he hadn’t had such a weak spot for Tamlen. He and Mheganni both—I’m certain they’d have followed Tamlen right to Fen’Harel’s den if he’d only asked.”

My ribs ached and protested; I felt as though some invisible chains kept them from expanding, kept me from breathing. Oh, Theron… I’d never known. He never told me. To hear from Merrill, from a third party, that he’d been truly so devoted to Tamlen only fueled my regrets.

“Mheganni hasn’t been the same,” she murmured, so quietly I almost missed it. “She never liked shemlen, but she used to be willing to give individuals a chance. Now, though…” Her hands clenched around her teacup, entirely too pale. “I think it hurt her too much. Theron and Tamlen were—she calls Theron her soul-brother.”

I forced myself to take a long swallow of tea. I’d thought Theron and I were close, that we’d been friends, but he’d never told me any of this. Did anyone know? Did even Zevran? “He never said.”

“Oh. I guess he wouldn’t. He… He’s a very private person, isn’t he?” I just nodded. “He was always the strong, calm one. I don’t think either Mheganni or Tamlen would’ve made it as far as they did without him.”

She sighed. “But that’s enough of all that. I’m just making myself sadder.” I gave her a weak smile, which she returned, a bit more convincingly. “Um, Vir’era, so, Varric told me that you enjoy singing. Is—is that true?”

I frowned, but nodded. “Yes. It’s a calming hobby, usually. Why?”

She leaned forward earnestly. “Would you mind singing something now? You don’t have to, of course! But I just think it would be nice to hear a song. And Varric said you have a nice singing voice, so I’ve been a bit jealous that I haven’t heard it yet, and no one else is around, so I was just hoping… Never mind, it’s stupid. Pretend I didn’t say anything!”

“No, no, it’s fine! I just… I didn’t expect that.” I nervously swirled the tea in my cup. “I don’t know what to sing.”

“Something happy, maybe,” she suggested. “We’re too sad right now. We need a happy song.”

“Um…” I couldn’t think of any very happy songs. “Well, there’s one that—it’s… it’s not a super happy song, but it isn’t sad, at least.” The tune tickled at the edge of my mind. It wasn’t the same one the mirror had sung for me, but it was a familiar melody nonetheless, one that had come to mind as I tried to place its song, and maybe… Maybe it was a little appropriate. My life, the musical—what a laugh. “ _Dancing bears, painted wings: things I almost remember—and a song someone sings once upon a December…_ ”

I let the words come of their own accord. I knew the song by heart, had memorized it as a child, when I was fascinated by learning music to impress everyone I knew. I’d never quite rid myself of the hobby. It had been a boon with Leliana, making it easier to remember the songs she taught me, but now…

It felt like someday all I’d have left of my life before was the music. The songs that I had memorized for whatever reason—for fun or because they resonated with me or maybe on a dare. I’d remember them forever and forget all else.

“ _Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember: things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember… And a song someone sings… once upon a December._ ”

“That was beautiful, lethallin.”

“…Ma serannas.”

 

Anders didn’t ask where I’d gone when I arrived back. He was too busy at the time—there had been a cave-in somewhere even deeper in Darktown while I slept, and injured refugees were pouring into the clinic. He likely only noticed my arrival because I set to work immediately, adding at least a bit more order to the frightened people.

He didn’t ask later, either.

We used the entirety of our elfroot potions stockpile in the hours after my return. I was so exhausted by the time the last person had received all we could give (by then, it was little more than a tourniquet and a superficial healing spell) that I all but collapsed on the floor into sleep. All the cots were full of patients.

I didn’t sleep deeply, though. I hadn’t been a very deep sleeper in a long time, even if once it would have taken a miracle to awaken me prematurely from such a state. The quietest of sounds, if out of place, was enough to jolt me from my slumber—and it did.

Outside the clinic, under the low din of voices everpresent in Darktown, were steps far too self-assured and weighty to belong to any of the locals. I didn’t recognize the steps, and at first didn’t realize what had awoken me, but soon I heard them, so utterly out-of-place here, and I knew immediately that they could mean nothing good.

Some of Darktown’s residents spoke belligerently. More feet than usual scrambled about just beyond the clinic doors, and though they were shut, the newcomer could be the only reason for this chaos. I pulled myself into a crouch, heartbeat rising quickly into my throat. Few of the patients were awake. Good. Anders was scratching away at some parchment, his staff leaning on a post somewhere between the two of us.

The footsteps reached the clinic doors and paused. By now, I knew they had to belong to someone that had some sort of military training—perhaps a soldier from Amaranthine, if we were lucky. It wouldn’t be the first time someone from Vigil’s Keep itself had come to personally deliver a letter from Castor. Beside me, Littlefoot stared at the door, growling quietly.

Even so, Anders was an apostate. I stepped quickly to stand by his staff, leaning Maleficent casually beside it. Hopefully it would be assumed both belonged to me. Hopefully it would be assumed that I was the only mage, and that Anders simply helped with the more mundane aspects. He had, after all, never returned to the Grey Wardens. They could not protect him.

The door opened. Anders’ quill stopped its scratching. Littlefoot’s growl cut off. Those patients who were awake gasped. My heart choked me as it skipped a beat, leaving me breathless and wholly unprepared, because it was not a soldier at the door, nor was it a Grey Warden, or anyone we may have expected to see.

It was Cullen.

“Get out!” Wood clattered against hard-packed dirt, prompting Littlefoot to bark. When I turned, I saw Anders standing straight up, completely stiff, glaring at the Knight-Captain. “Your kind is not welcome here! This is a place of healing, and I would not have you threaten it!”

I could feel the Fade pulling around him. He was barely holding Justice back, and I wasn’t certain that Cullen’s reply would help. “Anders,” I said, quiet enough that I was not shouting as he was, but loud enough for him to hear. His glare refocused on me. “Not now.”

“Vir’era…” I watched his eyes narrow, but the Fade energy in the room became calmer. Not gone, oh no, but no longer was it a bomb waiting to explode. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” I only smiled weakly, unsure if I did, and pressed a hand into Littlefoot’s scruff. He quieted, too, though he was no more pleased about it than Anders.

Cullen waited for me to look to him again before speaking. His face was completely blank, a wooden panel with no emotions beyond simple command. “Warden Vir’era Sabrae. Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard formally requests your presence.”

Bad, bad, bad, this was very bad. I forced myself to swallow down the whimper that wanted to escape. “I… I see. When?”

He continued to stare at me and did not flinch. “Now.”

 

I was marched to the Gallows like a captured apostate. Cullen may have come alone, but he had the presence of ten lesser men and towered a foot over my head, and Littlefoot had been forbidden to come. I had not felt so small in ages. There was little question of what I’d done wrong, though: I had shapeshifted. What else was I capable of? They’d want to know. They’d want to be sure. Because there was no circumstances in which Cullen had not told Meredith about what had happened at the Wounded Coast.

He was a very loyal Templar, after all.

It was very early in the morning still, and a slight chill touched the air. It would be gone by midday, I knew, overtaken by Kirkwall’s late summer heat. Still, it seeped through my simple robes and down into the marrow of my bones. I sent a quiet little prayer to Mythal, hoping she might somehow hear me, that she might somehow protect me, though I knew she couldn’t. This time, I was on my own.

Meredith was waiting in her office, the very same office I’d entered my first day in Kirkwall. She watched us enter contemplatively, nodding at Cullen and examining me close enough I almost wondered if she would like a magnifying glass.

“Grey Warden,” she said, at last.

“Knight-Commander,” I answered, inclining my head briefly. I wouldn’t bow to her, but surely a little deference would help my situation. I kept my eyes down on her desk.

“Cullen told me something very unusual the other day. I would like clarification.” She walked around her desk and stopped in front of me, waiting for something. Steeling my nerves, I met her gaze. Something almost like approval flickered in her eyes before she continued, “I was told you can take on the form of a cat.”

“Yes, ser.” I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I hadn’t been allowed to bring Maleficent, either. A minor precaution, to be certain, given that anyone worth their salt knew a mage needed no staff to cast a spell, but… My hands longed to clench around her, for comfort if nothing else.

“What sort of spell allows this?” Like Cullen, Meredith’s face showed no emotions. But unlike Cullen, her face was cold and impersonal, a marble bust lined in Templar steel, set entirely in her ways.

I shifted, and immediately heard Cullen move to mimic the motion. He was probably ready to kill me if I so much as flinched in the wrong direction. I tasted metal in my mouth, and had to hope it was only from my pounding heart. “I-it’s—it’s an ancient, um, ancient m-magic, ser. I-I—during, um, th-the Blight, w-w-we traveled with—one of my friends f-fruh, um, that was with us, she’s—she’s a, a, a Witch of the W-wilds.”

Cullen shifted again, though this time I had made no movement. I was almost certain that I was shaking, and could only hope they didn’t interpret it as guilt. Meredith’s eyes narrowed at me, but she showed little else in reaction to my words. “A Witch of the Wilds?”

“Y-yes, ser.”

“You mean to tell me they are not mere folktales?” Meredith demanded.

“I… yes, ser.”

She pursed her lips and examined my face. If she was looking for tells, she would find none; I was not lying. The air seemed unwilling to move, unwilling to be breathed. I forced a deep breath as time stretched on.

“I see,” she said, eventually. The tension did not leave, though it was alleviated, and she walked back behind her desk. She didn’t sit, turning instead to stare at me from a greater distance. “And where is this witch now? I admit that I have heard little beyond rumor and hearsay of your collective deeds during the Blight, but one would think an apostate would have been… of greater consequence.”

“She left,” I whispered. “After the Archdemon.”

Meredith frowned at me. “And you expect me to believe she existed by your word alone?”

To my surprise, Cullen stepped forward. “Knight-Commander, I apologize for the interruption, but on this count, I can vouch for the Warden. The witch he speaks of was at Kinloch Hold when they liberated it from the blood mages.”

“You are certain she was a Witch of the Wilds?”

“No, ser, but I am certain that she was an apostate and that she was…” He hesitated. When I glanced at his face, he looked entirely uncomfortable with the situation, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was uncomfortable with defending me, or simply uncomfortable with discussing Morrigan. I hoped it was the latter, though I dared not believe it to be truth. “She was not a particularly civilized sort, ser.”

I almost snorted, despite it all. As terrifying as this interrogation was, and as out-of-place as such a sound would have been, that description of Morrigan… It was frankly hilarious. I disagreed entirely; sociable she was not, and she seemed unaware of many social cues, but she was certainly as civilized as any of the rest of us. Perhaps more than some.

“Understood. Thank you, Knight-Captain.” Meredith nodded at Cullen, and he stepped back once more. My heart pounded in my throat when her eyes dropped back down to me. “As a trustworthy source has corroborated your story, I will accept that someone similar to a Witch of the Wilds did travel with your party during the Blight, but I remain unconvinced that she could have taught you to change your appearance in such a way.”

“I-i-i-it’s true, ser! I—I can demonstrate, o-o-or, or… C-castor knows! Please, ser, I am not lying to you,” I begged.

“And how am I to know this is not a trick and that you have not consorted with demons?” she retorted.

There was a knock on the door. We all froze. The knock came again. “Knight-Commander?” called a voice. “If I may intrude…”

Staring at the door as I was, I don’t know what sort of reaction Meredith had to the voice. Her own was calm as she replied, a stark contrast to the harsh tone from just moments ago. “First Enchanter Orsino. Come in.” He did so, and I stared openly. Unlike Meredith, who seemed older than I’d expected, Orsino was younger. Maybe time simply hadn’t caught up with him yet. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Orsino gave a funny little half-smile that said he knew Meredith wasn’t pleased to see him, but he didn’t care. “I apologize for the intrusion, Knight-Commander Meredith. I couldn’t help but to overhear your conversation with this young… Warden.”

“If we disturbed you, I apologize. We will exercise greater caution, and your concern is appreciated, I’m sure.”

“No, no, not at all.” The game of pleasantries they played was very at odds with what I thought they would have done. They hated each other, and it was evident even now, but—but now they acted like they were dealing with something that simply wasn’t to their tastes rather than something entirely anathema to their desires. Orsino smiled at me, a bit more genuinely than he had smiled to Meredith. “Not at all. If I understand correctly, this Warden is capable of … what was it, exactly? My ears aren’t what they once were, I’m afraid.”

He had to know what we were talking about. To have heard as much, he would have been listening long before Meredith started to grow loud. “Shapeshifting,” Cullen answered, when no one else seemed willing.

Orsino smiled at Cullen then. “Thank you, Knight-Captain Cullen. Shapeshifting. Knight-Commander Meredith, I know it is a little-studied area of magic, but we do have a few writings on the subject here in this very Circle.”

Meredith crossed her arms. “Is that so.”

“Indeed. They are not exact of course, and all are accounts of non-mages who encountered shapeshifters, but it is a legitimate form of magic. As our young friend mentioned, it is most commonly associated with the infamous Witch of the Wilds, Flemeth, and her many daughters.” His smile creeped wider.

“I see.” Gauntleted fingers drummed on her arm. “How would you suggest we resolve this issue, then, First Enchanter?”

“If I heard correctly, this Warden did offer to shapeshift for you. I would be more than happy to provide a magical witness to attest as to the presence of blood magic or demons, if you are amenable to the idea, of course.”

A pause. I could hear each person’s breathing, though my own heartbeat threatened to drown them all out entirely. Surely this wasn’t healthy—it had been pounding since Cullen showed up at the clinic. My poor heart couldn’t take much more of this. Creators, I couldn’t take much more.

“It would be… an acceptable temporary measure, while we await confirmation from the Warden-Commander,” Meredith said, relenting at last. Her eyes snapped back to me. “How much space do you need to perform this magic safely, Warden?”

I gulped. “U-um, it… it depends on which form I take.”

“And how many can you take?”

“Th-three. A cat, l-like Cu—like Knight-Captain Cullen saw, um, and a mabari, and a halla.”

Her fingers drummed again. “What is a halla?”

“I-it’s a deer-like creature. Um, the Dalish—we keep them.”

She hummed, then gestured to something. Cullen moved the chairs in front of her desk. “Will this be enough space, Warden?” I nodded quickly. “I wish to see all three forms, that I might recognize them. You are a visitor in this city, and while I will respect the Warden-Commander’s choice to send you, I hope you understand that I am not fond of such surprises.”

I winced, but nodded again. “O-of course, ser. Ir abe—I’m sorry.”

“Very well. You may begin when you are ready, Warden.”

It seemed like she was trying to remind me of something by so frequently addressing me as ‘Warden,’ but I couldn’t place what. Did she mean to remind me of my oath to the Grey Wardens? Or just that I was an outsider here, neither Circle mage nor apostate?

I didn’t give these thoughts too much time. Her eyes settled on me, a hefty weight that felt near impossible to bear. I transformed first into a cat. At Meredith’s gesture, I turned slowly, and when she nodded, I concentrated on my mabari form. It was… an unusual sensation. Never before had I gone from one form to another without becoming my natural self in between, and, if I had to guess, neither my body nor my magic was fond of such a thing.

She gestured again, and I spun again. Orsino made quiet sounds to himself, mutterings and mumblings that I couldn’t quite understand, and likely wasn’t meant to, but when I looked to him, he was visibly delighted. As I changed over to halla form, all three made quiet sounds of… something. Awe for Orsino, but more like pure shock for Meredith and Cullen.

I blinked at them and waited for Meredith’s gesture to turn, and then again for permission to transform one last time back to my elfy self. She looked like she was doing complicated mathematical equations in her head as she stared me down, then looked to Orsino. “Well, First Enchanter? I saw no blood, but that does not preclude the possibility of demons.”

He shook his head, but his eyes were alight and his words were fast, and he wouldn’t stop staring at me. “There is something different about his magic—it does not match what we teach here in the Circle, but the Fade was not weakened for whatever spells he cast. It’s very curious, really. That his magic would be different is understandable—he is Dalish, after all—and I did not sense enough discrepancies for concern.”

Meredith’s lips puckered like she’d bitten unexpectedly into a lemon, and she dismissed him quickly. “I see. Thank you, First Enchanter.”

“It was my pleasure, Knight-Commander.” Orsino smiled serenely at her, and didn’t give me more than one last interested glance as he left the room. Not another word was spoken until the door closed behind him, and I felt Meredith’s eyes latch onto me once more.

“Warden Vir’era. I shall write to your Commander, but you may continue your work in Kirkwall unimpeded until I receive notification from him.” She leaned on her desk with both hands, lowering her eyes to meet mine directly. “Do not leave the city until then. I will send the letter with urgency, but I will also keep an eye on you. Know that if you attempt to leave, or if it turns out you have lied and tricked us today, we will know, and you will be dealt with accordingly.”

I was almost certainly shaking. “Y-yes, ser.”

“Know also that we are aware of your… clinic, if it can be called such. I do not know what benefit that could be to your investigations, but I have chosen to ignore it for the time being, as it is ultimately helpful to the city. Do not make me regret this.”

“O-of course not, ser… Thank you.”

“You may leave.”

I barely kept myself from running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ma serannas_ \- thank you  
>  _fen'harel enansal_ \- the dread wolf's blessing
> 
> [once upon a december](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Bsdu57SFZc)
> 
> \--
> 
> so, this chapter was hard af to write. part bc i was really busy all of march (which is when i was trying to write this) and partially bc WOW THAT FIRST BIT. YEAH UH WOW. WOWIE WOW WOW.
> 
> as of right now, i'm only barely going to have chapter 8 finished tonight if i keep going as i have been, so while next week's update will be on time & everything, and i'm hoping to keep the pace up, i might have to take a brief break, especially because i've had a couple real-life situations come up to complicate things and lower my time/energy for writing.
> 
> i also wanna take a moment to thank everyone who's commented and left kudos for me here or in previous parts of the series. i answer every comment i get, no matter how long or short, and i really do appreciate them all. thank you guys very much! you make this a really rewarding experience.


	8. a little sapling, just a sprout

Sometimes things don’t sink in quickly. Sometimes they do. The idea that I couldn’t go home, somehow, managed to fit in both these categories simultaneously. It’d been over a year since I was taken away, so in many ways it was easy to forget. I just kept going about the life I’d found here, healing people and making potions. I didn’t cry again, but it was impossible to ignore, late at night, that this was all I had left. It wasn’t much.

Merrill visited a few times. She even helped out when she did, though mostly we had her make potions, since the refugees didn’t know her and were generally a rather distrustful lot. She never brought up the panic attack I’d had at her house, nor did she mention the eluvian at all. Not even as her ‘little project.’ I decided I was grateful for this.

The Hawkes and Varric were busy doing odd jobs here and there to gather up the coin that Bartrand needed for his expedition. One day, Aveline and Carver came to the clinic, dragging a laughing Malia and a bloody Garret along behind them. “Dragons!” Malia announced. “Actual dragons!”

“What?” Anders asked, as both of us froze at the disheveled state of our friends.

“The bloody Bone Pit,” Garrett said, and Carver lowered him slowly onto a cot. His leg was soaked in blood—those pants would have to be thrown away. Maybe burned.

Anders shot to his side, making worried sounds, and waved a hand off to the one solid wall of the clinic. “Vir’era, grab some—”

“Already done.” I pushed a large flask of elfroot potion into his hand. He gave me a brief smile, uncorked the stuff, and held it for Garrett to drink.

Garrett, to his credit, didn’t even make a face. The potions didn’t generally taste particularly good, but he took it like a champ. “Thank you. Sorry, I’m shite at healing magic—Bethany was always the better healer…”

“Let’s just make sure you haven’t done anything irreparable first,” Anders said. Together, he and I helped the mage out of his pants. The source of most of the blood was a nasty burn on the back of one thigh. The cloth had congealed to the scar in Garrett’s attempt at healing, so we had to cut it away there.

“Well, that can’t be good,” Garrett observed when we brought out the scissors.

“You healed your pants to yourself,” Anders said, eyebrows raised. “Makes it rather hard to take them off.”

“And in any other context, I’d be glad to hear that,” Malia interrupted, “but for now can you please fix him? Flirt later, fix now. I mean, unless you like my brother bleeding and injured in your clinic, which is weird, but I’m not going to judge.”

“Maker’s breath, Malia…” Garrett hid his face as we continued, and I laughed a bit.

“Don’t worry, Garrett,” I said, then lowered my voice theatrically. “As kinky as I’ve heard Anders is, I don’t think he’s into bloodplay.”

“Vir’era!” Anders exclaimed, though the scissors didn’t twitch at all as he continued to cut away fabric. “Don’t give away all my secrets now! I distinctly remember Garrett saying something about liking men with a mysterious side.”

I laughed a little, and we set to work. It wasn’t easy getting that burn fixed, and we had to actually cut back into Garrett in some spots to release the bits of cloth, but we managed. As our hands turned red from blood, Malia excitedly told us all about the Bone Pit. I listened with half an ear, not actually wanting to cause greater injury to my patient.

“Some ugly Orlesian merchant (“He wasn’t that ugly,” Garrett cut in) bought it, and normally I wouldn’t care, but he was offering a reward, and you know we need all the money we can get right now—Varric was with us, but he had a meeting with the Merchant’s Guild and thought it’d be hilarious if he showed up covered in dragon blood.

“Anyway, the Bone Pit. What’s-his-face (“His name is Hubert, Malia!”) asked if we wouldn’t go check because his horse was scared shitless or something and he hadn’t heard from the workers, who are all Fereldans, and so of course we jumped at the chance.”

“You didn’t seem too eager at first, if I remember correctly.” Garrett moved a bit too much, and Anders had to pull the knife away quickly. I pushed on Garrett’s shoulders, and he stopped trying to get a better look at Malia.

“Shut up, Garrett, you’re ruining the story!”

“Oh, pardon me. A terrible offense, I’m sure. Do go on, dear sister.” He settled back down, and Anders slowly, carefully, pushed the knife back into the topmost layer of his burn. He uttered a string of quiet, slurred curses, and Anders murmured soothing sounds.

“Thank you, brother dearest.”

“Hey!”

“Carver, you and I both know you’d hate it more if I called you brother dearest.” Garrett snorted, then winced as we peeled off the piece we’d cut, which had a large amount of fabric stuck to it. Anders was quick with the healing magic, pulsing blue light into the open wound and closing it.

“So, we get to the Bone Pit, and everyone there is dead. Not that there were a lot of people left, mind you, but the ones there were all dead, and burned. It smelled like a really nasty attempt at grilling steak. We went through carefully, because none of us were quite sure what in the Maker’s name could have done that, and when we went into the cave, what do you know! A poor lost soul left still alive had gone further into danger on accident, and was shouting about dragons.”

Fresh pink skin covered most of Garrett’s burn now, but there were still a few burned patches with cloth. They were smaller, at least, though Garrett still wasn’t exactly delighted by the whole cutting-off-his-skin bit. It was for his own good!

“Garrett said some mushy stuff about going back and we’d protect him blah, blah, blah. (“Hey!”) So we went deeper in and turns out he was right! Dragons! Mostly baby ones, little wingless dragonlings, but there were a couple drakes, and wow, have you ever fought a drake? They’re mean bastards.”

“Very mean,” I agreed, remembering Haven and the dragonlings and drakes that had been there, as well as the various other dragonkin I’d fought, Archdemon notwithstanding. I pulled up a piece of Garrett’s skin and Anders went in with his healing.

“Wait, you mean you actually have fought drakes?” Carver asked, leaning around Anders to stare at me, then quickly moving back after getting a glance at just what was happening to Garrett’s leg.

“You’re interrupting!” Malia said, poking Carver. “Honestly, what hasn’t Vir’era done? We can find out about his dragons later. Right now I’m talking about mine!”

“Yours?” Garrett asked, though his voice was high and pained. Anders rubbed gentle, sympathetic circles into the newly-healed flesh on his leg.

“Ours, sure, if you want to pretend. But we all know I killed the most.” Garrett almost retorted, but switched in favor of a long, pained groan when I began slicing off the last part of cloth-mixed burn. Aveline’s snort was probably enough of a comment anyway. “The biggest one was…”

She told us all about the dragons in the Bone Pit. Anders and I finished with Garrett soon, and then it was Aveline’s turn, and then Carver’s, all as Malia rambled on about dragons and how they’d fought, and how she’d made some really great jokes. At one point, she stood up and began reenacting, enlisting Garrett as her dragon, which he took to hesitantly—at first. By the end, they were both jumping around and jabbing at one another. The fact that Garrett hadn’t gotten fresh pants went entirely overlooked.

 

The seasons were changing. Autumn had just begun, and while summer’s heat lingered over the ocean, the Hawkes were growing antsy. Bartrand’s expedition was due to leave very soon, and they had yet to gather all their funds. It had been one year since the end of the Blight. The Deep Roads wouldn’t remain clear for long.

A few days after the Hawkes’ Bone Pit Reenactment, I received a letter of apology from Meredith. Well, as close to apology as I would ever get from her.

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae:_

_I have received notice from your Commander that your talents are, as you claimed, not the work of blood magic or demons. It may please you to know that he said it would not matter even if they were, as you were a Grey Warden, and therefore beyond reach of the Chantry._

_Know that this is not so. No one, Grey Warden or not, Dalish or not, is beyond the reach of the Maker, as enacted by the Chantry and its Templars._

_You may resume your duties as before. We shall not approach you on the subject of shapeshifting again, so long as your cause remains just in the eyes of the Maker. Should you overstep your bounds or be found guilty of some other missteps, however, we will be forced to bring you to justice._

_Maker guide you, Warden._

_Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard_

It wasn’t a kind letter, but it was more than I’d expected. I would need to tread carefully, though. They knew already I ran a clinic here. It would not take much for them to realize that I was not the only mage—and were it brought to light that I was effectively harboring an apostate abomination (let alone just one of the two!), I had little doubt they would make me Tranquil.

Very little scared me more than that.

 

To my surprise, a second, more friendly letter was delivered alongside Meredith’s. I was happy to see Mia’s familiar scratchy handwriting, but also extremely nervous—surely she was pissed at me. I hadn’t written in ages.

_Vir'era,_

_Cullen says you’ve been busy. I get that, really, but I been busy too, and I still had the time to write, so what’s got you so hard to talk to, huh?_

_Ugh, forget I said that. Just hard, I guess. It’s been a long time I been writing you, so I’m not used to waiting around on an answer. You’re usually faster than that. But I guess you’re a bit farther now, and Cullen thinks you’re busier, so who’m I to say what’s what? I miss talking to you, though. You always had interesting stuff to say. Please write me back if you can. I think my brother’d be upset if I pestered him about you too much, what with you being a mage and him being a Templar and all._

_And tell me where I can send my letters to! I don’t mind so much if you don’t write me as often, so long as I can still send you as many letters as I want. It was enough of a struggle with the last couple letters, ‘cause most people aren’t wanting to go to Kirkwall right about now, and less so to look for a Grey Warden so they can deliver some silly farmgirl’s letter. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop, though. I got things to tell you._

_I wanna hear about what you’ve been up to, too! What’s happening now that the Blight’s gone? What do Grey Wardens do in times like this? There aren’t a lot of darkspawn hanging around to fight, are there? Maybe there are. People say there’s always darkspawn in the Deep Roads and in caves and whatnot._

_You better write to me, or I’ll do something drastic. Not sure just what, but you’d better believe it! Maybe I’ll scrounge up some money and hike my way up to Kirkwall to tell you off in person. I’ll be waiting. Don’t make me wait too long, now._

_Mia Rutherford, 9:31 Dragon_

I wanted to cry when I was done, because I’d never met Mia in person, but she was so invested in me anyway. I didn’t have the energy to write back right away. Hopefully soon. When I found some way to get mail more consistently.

 

“So, Mittens,” Varric drawled one evening, as our entire group lounged around in his little corner of the Hanged Man. I looked up from my playing cards—Garrett was trying to teach me how to play Wicked Grace, but frankly I was rather hopeless at it. “Big Bird here told me you’re in need of a place to get your letters. That true, or was he just pulling my leg?”

“It’s true,” I said. I had a face card in my hand, but I couldn’t remember what that meant. Was it… a good thing? Or, wait, was this the bad face card? The others were all numbers. Mostly low ones. I couldn’t remember if that was good or bad, either. I’d never even learned poker.

“Ha!” Isabela laid her cards down on the table and smirked around. Garrett groaned, and I didn’t even bother to look at her hand. She’d won, surely. I put my cards down, glad I hadn’t bet anything (not that I had anything to bet), and turned my attention more fully on Varric.

“Now, now, Rivaini, don’t get so cocky.” He tapped Isabela’s cards and winked at me. “You were cheating.”

“I was not!” Isabela protested, a hand flying to her chest, but she was smiling wide.

“You’re a terrible cheater, you know that?” He laid his own hand flat on the table and flicked out a face card from the middle. It was the same as one from Isabela’s hand. She cursed, and Malia laughed. As the deck was reshuffled (and Isabela was thoroughly shaken in an attempt to find other spare cards, much to her discontent), Varric gently slapped my shoulder. “I have a proposition for you.”

I squinted at him a bit. “Should I be worried? Proposition rarely seems to precede anything particularly delightful. At least, not in my experience.”

He chuckled and shook my shoulder a little. “Nah, don’t get yourself worked up or anything, I promise it’s mutually beneficial.”

“That’s what they all say.” I took a drink of my… Well, whatever beverage it was that Varric had had brought up. Some attempt at ale, I think. It tasted terrible and smelled worse.

“Tell ‘im, Vir’era!” Malia cheered, clunking her tankard against mine.

Varric put a hand against his chest and sighed dramatically. “Such little trust, Mittens! Don’t tell me you think I’d sell you out or something?”

“You’re technically on the Merchant’s Guild, dwarf,” Aveline said, pointing a finger at him accusingly. “He’s right to be suspicious of your motives. Plus, you’re a _writer_.”

“Ah, you’ve got me there.” He shrugged, smirking around at the few who were listening in, then raised his right hand by his shoulder. “I promise, I have nothing but good intentions here.”

Malia snorted, but she was smiling. “Sure you do. Well, let’s hear it, shall we? What’s our favorite storytelling dwarf want with our favorite elven Warden and his letters?”

“Nothing with the letters, I promise you. Well, mostly nothing.” He turned back to me with his most charming smile, and I honestly had to fight down a bit of a blush. “I would like to offer my services, from the bottom of my humble heart, to act as an address for your letters.”

“And?” I asked. “What do you want in exchange?”

“In exchange?” he repeated, pretending for a moment to be scandalized. “Nothing, really. But, well, since you’ll be coming here to pick up your letters, and you’ll have to talk to me to get them, I was hoping you might be willing to talk to me sometimes. You know, just some friendly chats. You’re an interesting guy, and I want to know your story.”

A smile crept onto my face. I couldn’t help it; I was really and truthfully delighted. “You want to hear more about the Blight, don’t you?”

He returned my smile in full (and then some)—a really wonderful expression. It lit up his whole face, even if he was mostly doing it to get me to agree. “Well, since you brought it up, I can’t say I would refuse!”

I laughed. “How could I say no? You’ll just need to promise me one thing, Varric.”

“And what’s that, Mittens?”

“Don’t write a book about me.”

If Varric had wanted to write a book about me, he certainly didn’t say so. He simply agreed to my terms, as good-natured as ever, and I went about writing my own letters so people would know, once again, how to contact me. A letter to Castor, a short courtesy one to Meredith, a more heartfelt one (full of apologies and anecdotes) to Mia, to Theron, to Alistair and Capella, to Anya and Faren, to anyone I could feasibly send a message to.

I was stuck here. I didn’t really want to be—I wanted to go home—but right now I was feeling… I was feeling alright, and I knew it wouldn’t last. I’d have to make sure that I made the best of it while I could. Someday I’d need the support these people so graciously gave, and it may be soon. Their letters would help.

You can do this. You’ll be fine. Do what you can, and that is all that can be asked of you.

 

[A series of letters received and sent by Vir’era in the following month, before Bartrand’s expedition.]

Vee,

About that expedition you mentioned in one of your reports—I have this sneaking suspicion that you were planning to tag along anyways, so consider this an official order: Do what you need to do so that you will be on that expedition. If you need to tell this Bartrand Tethras that you’re under orders to do so, these are those orders. I will send a courier with a bag of coin to your clinic one week after sending this letter, with the intent to cover your costs in relation to this order so that he cannot refuse. Not that he should in the first place, but you can never be too careful with someone on the Merchant’s Guild. Maker knows it’s always money first with them.

I don’t know what’s so important about this particular expedition that has you even considering it, given how you get whenever we go into even the shallowest parts of the Deep Roads, but I expect a full report when you’ve returned, and I do expect you to return. Help with the expedition however you must to remain with it. I will back up whatever you need to do, should you need to answer for something.

On a related note, I am sending a small group of Wardens to examine some of the Deep Roads in the Free Marches around the same time. I doubt you’ll cross paths—they are at least starting rather further east than Kirkwall—but I will alert them to the possibility nonetheless. Ser Stroud has volunteered to lead them.

Don’t take Anders down with you. I can’t protect him the way you want to unless he rejoins the Grey Wardens, and I don’t have the resources to force him right now. Besides, you seem to have the situation with him under control. My interference might only cause trouble, and that’s the last thing either of us needs right now. Let me know if you need anything else.

Warden-Commander Castor Cousland, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vir’era,

Maker have mercy. I can’t say how glad I am to hear from you and know you’re going to be just fine. Cullen sent me an awful letter saying you did some kind of weird magic and that I oughta be careful with you, but I gave him a talking to for that. You’re better than that. Maybe I shouldn’t be so confident about someone I never even met in person, but I like to think I know you well enough that I can make these kinds of judgments anyhow. You helped save Honnleath, after all. Not to mention all of Thedas, since you were there when your friend killed that Archdemon.

I am real sorry for how Cullen’s acting lately. He sounds way more suspicious than I remember him ever being, and I don’t know what all to do with that information. When he left to become a Templar he was such a nice kid. He really wanted to help people, including mages, because he knew there’s good in everyone. Now I’m not so sure. Whatever happened to him in Kinloch Hold must have done a real number. Please forgive him. Maybe he’ll be better someday, and I hope he will be, so that you can see what a good man he really is.

Now, what happened with Nathaniel? Last I heard you and he were happy together in Amaranthine, but it sounds to me like that’s not true anymore. Don’t tell me you left that poor boy behind. Don’t you dare, Vir’era Sabrae, not after how you were just about gushing over him to me, or I will be very cross with you. It’s just not right.

You better write me soon. I know you’re busy, but you said you’ll have more time to write now, and since you’ve got yourself an actual address thanks to this new dwarf friend (is he another prince or something?), you don’t have any more excuses. I’ll be waiting.

Mia Rutherford, 9:31 Dragon

 

Mia,

I know I’ve already apologized, but let me do so once again. I’m sorry I caused you such strife. I may have been preoccupied, but that shouldn’t have been reason to leave people in the dark the way I did.

It warms my heart to know that you think so highly of me, though I don’t know if I really deserve all that. I try to do good and to help people, certainly, but… Well, I haven’t been all that diligent with it lately. I’ve been selfish.

Please, don’t blame your brother for what happened. It was my fault. I’m a shapeshifter, and I did not divulge this information to him or his Knight-Commander. He and I crossed paths on the Wounded Coast and I surprised him, then failed to explain the situation. I guess I’m not quite accustomed to shemlen society just yet. So don’t blame him for things I caused, and don’t apologize for it, either. Mages are feared among shemlen, and he has more reason than most.

As for Nathaniel… I’m very sorry to crush your hopes, Mia, but I did leave him in Amaranthine. We parted ways when I left for Kirkwall. I think he wanted to join me, but his place is there, with his sister and Vigil’s Keep. It hurt. It still hurts. Creators preserve me, Mia. I don’t know why I ever thought a relationship with anyone I’d have to leave behind would be a good idea. Right now I mostly wish I hadn’t.

But the clinic distracts me. It’s a lot of work. You’d think the refugees are trying to get themselves hurt, honestly. There’s good in it, too. Some of them are kind enough to share their food with us or help us with our work when they have chance, but most are too scared to do more than come when they’re truly desperate. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand that fear of magic. But I’m a mage, and maybe I’m not meant to.

I probably won’t be able to write you again for a while. This letter won’t reach you for a few weeks, and then yours will take yet longer to find me. Castor has ordered me to accompany an expedition that a local merchant is leading into the Deep Roads, and I don’t know just how long it will take, but we’ll be leaving soon. I’m not looking forward to this, but it’s my duty. At least my new friends will be there, too. I mentioned the Hawkes in my last letter, and they’re helping to fund the expedition. Varric will be there, too; he’s the leader’s brother.

Hope all is well with you.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vir’era,

I’m glad to hear from you again, lethallin. I was starting to grow worried, as was Zevran. Are you safe in Kirkwall? I know little of the city, but Zevran tells me things that make me concerned for your safety there. It does not sound like a welcoming place for mages or for elves—though I suppose such is true of almost any shem city. I can only hope the Grey Wardens are enough protection for you.

That you have found my clan there—that you have spoken with them and would help me to send them letters—lethallin, I am overwhelmed. Yes, please, do this for me, and I shall repay you when I have a chance. It has been so long since I spoke with any of my clan, and I miss them terribly. Mheganni and Merrill especially. They were my closest friends there, besides Tamlen. I would love nothing more than to exchange letters with them, and I have included some even now, for Merrill and Mheganni and Keeper Marethari. Ma serannas, lethallin. Ma serannas.

But some of what you said troubles me. I couldn’t ask her in my letter, not when it has been so long since I spoke with her, but, Vir’era, what has happened to Merrill? You said she was living in Kirkwall’s alienage. Why is she not with the clan? She was always such a dutiful First. I do not understand why she would leave them now. Mheganni especially would have needed her after Tamlen’s death. I must know.

Dareth shiral, lethallin.

Theron Mahariel, 9:31 Dragon

 

Theron,

Ir abelas. I didn’t mean to make you worry, lethallin. I’ve been remiss in many things these past months, but hopefully I can renew my sense of purpose now. One door closes that others may open, and I’ve found I can never return to where I came. It will not be an easy path, but I will do what I can with what I have been given.

I don’t know how much I should tell you of Merrill and Mheganni’s situations. I am not very familiar with Mheganni—we’ve met only a handful of times—and I don’t think she’d appreciate my interference. She will be happy to receive your letter, though. I cannot deliver it myself, but Garrett kindly offered to do so. As soon as I have letters from the clan for you, I will send them on, I promise, though I must warn you that I do not know when this will be. I am going on an expedition to the Deep Roads very soon, and will not be back for some weeks. Merrill may help, though.

Merrill is safe, Theron, I can promise you that much. My friends here in Kirkwall and I have taken pains to ensure as much. She left the clan because she is pursuing something they disagree with, but that she cannot be persuaded to leave. I don’t know if it is a good thing that she continues with this so stubbornly, but what she is trying to do is restore valuable parts of our history, and I cannot find fault with that. I’ll watch out for her, I promise.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vee,

Is it bad if I say that I hadn’t noticed how long it’d been since your last letter? I hope not, because I didn’t. The court has been keeping me busy lately, and they just won’t stop asking me things, even when I’m bathing! I’m serious! I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have insisted on staying a Grey Warden after all, but I don’t think Capella would have let me.

It’s not all bad, of course. The cheese is really great, and Capella’s always around. Have I ever told you how wonderful she is at handling the court? Because she’s really amazing at that, and I thank the Maker every day that she’s here to help me. Sometimes I think people might just ask me things because they like to bother me. I mean, it’s not like I let Capella do all the work, and I’ve done my share of kingly things, but she usually knows how to get things done better than I do, so she just tends to have all the good ideas. Usually.

(Don’t tell her I said it but sometimes she seems to forget that the subjects are actually people, too, and I have to stop things from making a mess. Usually by making a different mess. That Capella then helps me clean up.)

And actually, Shianni’s been a wonderful help, too. She doesn’t talk much about anything except for the Alienage, but I don’t really blame her. She brings us issues we didn’t even know were issues—did you know that there are some humans who actually go to the Alienage specifically to hurt elves? Even in Denerim! I heard about that happening in Orlais when I was still with the Templars, but I didn’t think it’d happen in Denerim! We’re working on that. It’s a lot harder to stop than you’d think.

Do you remember when I went to meet my sister, Goldanna? You didn’t go with us, but I’m pretty sure I talked to you about her at some point. Capella and Castor thought I should cut all ties with her, and I honestly tried to. Castor was right when he said she was just out for herself, and while Capella said she’d support whatever I chose, I could tell she didn’t like Goldanna.

Anyway, what I mean to say was that Goldanna came to the palace shouting about how I apparently owe her money for existing or something. I’m not entirely clear on it, because she was escorted out before I even knew she was there, but it’s causing a ruckus among the servants. Some of them believe she was right. I’m not sure what to do. Capella thinks we should fire the ones acting out, but that can’t be the best solution—I’m certain it’d only cause more problems in the future. Still, I can’t let this go on. If you have any advice, I’d be grateful for it. At least most of the servants just think she was crazy…

Hey, be safe, alright? I’m working to give mages more autonomy here in Ferelden, but what I hear of the Free Marches makes it sound like they’re doing mostly the opposite. Meredith Stannard in particular is said to be a very firm woman when it comes to mages. Some people say she’s fair about it, but some say she goes overboard, and I can’t make a judgement from rumors. Don’t do anything stupid. Not that you’re likely to, but all the same.

Alistair Theirin, 9:31 Dragon

_PS: Vir’era, what Alistair says of Meredith is just the start. He doesn’t want to frighten you, but I know he’s heard more than he lets on of her view on magic. He was in training to be a Templar, after all. She has no forgiveness for anything that she sees as an abuse of magic or deliberate ‘swaying of a mind.’ Castor can only protect you so much from Amaranthine. Keep vigilant, and take no unnecessary risks. All the best, Capella._

 

Alistair,

I understand you being busy, so don’t worry that you didn’t notice. You’re a King now, and have far more concerns demanding your attention. Even in the bath, apparently. (Which, by the way, sounds precisely like you have an advisor badgering you just to get a reaction, and less like there was some pressing issue that simply couldn’t wait until you were done.)

I am, unfortunately, aware that the lot of my city-dwelling brethren is frankly far from ideal. Please, I would be very grateful if you could do anything—anything at all—to make things even a fraction easier for them. Many Dalish could do as much, but most do not care; the city elves might be able to do things to help themselves, but it is generally far too dangerous without human help. They deserve much more than their lot in life. Trust Shianni, and do all you can to aid her. The humans will come around.

As for Goldanna… Alistair, what I wish to tell you, I cannot say in a simple letter. I should have said it long ago, but an appropriate time never came. Perhaps I should have spoken up anyways, but I can’t fix the past, no matter how much I might like to. When I have an opportunity to do so, I will travel to Denerim and speak with you personally on this matter. Until then, I think I can safely tell you here that Goldanna is not your sister. She never was. The details I will explain when I can say them face to face. The matter is too delicate for letters.

Thank you for your concern over my wellbeing. Kirkwall is no easy place to live, not for anyone. I’m making the best of it, though, because I am needed here—I’m needed here the same way that I was needed with you and Theron during the Blight. I can do the most good from where I am now, and I’m not alone. Littlefoot is ever at my side, and I have made new friends who are capable and strong. I’ll be as safe as I can ever expect to be, I think.

Best wishes to you and Capella both.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon


	9. the deep roads expedition

Everything happens in time, and soon this was true of Bartrand’s Deep Roads expedition. He wasn’t happy with the idea that I was being sent to accompany him, especially given that he had asked for no such help from the Grey Wardens (or any group). But, as Castor had thought, the promise that I would pay my own way, not costing him even a copper’s worth in resources, seemed to smooth things over. That I could be a walking, talking darkspawn early warning device probably helped, too.

The expedition gathered in Hightown early one morning, with morning mist still hanging around what few plants lived in the city. Bodhan was positively delighted to see me, and offered space on his cart for my traveling gear without hesitation. I took him up on it, if only because I may be needed to fight.

While the Hawkes and Varric argued with Bartrand, I stayed back, talking quietly with Bodhan. “What has a decorated young man like yourself all the way here in Kirkwall?” he asked. “I don’t think our little expedition’s really likely to gain attention from your sort, is it? Not that it’s any of my business, of course, I’m just here to do what I can, aren’t I?”

I laughed quietly. He was an odd one, Bodhan, but I did enjoy talking with him sometimes. “This is mostly a coincidence, you’re right,” I said. “Truthfully, I’m here for a very different reason, but… Well, Castor asked me to accompany this expedition when I mentioned it, and I’ve become friends with the Hawke siblings.”

“I see, I see,” he said, nodding. “They seem like upstanding folk.” He glanced around, then leaned in. “Your being here wouldn’t have anything to do with your, ah, gift, would it?” My silence was telling enough, and he gave one short nod. “Thought that might be it. I’ll be sure to listen to anything you say. I know better than to try something different!”

“Ma serannas, Bodhan.” He smiled, then waved me off so he could make last minute checks of his wares and stores for the expedition. The Hawkes had finished (and won) the argument with Bartrand, so I wandered back over to them, slowly.

Leandra appeared to try and beg any of her children to stay. I kept out of it. That was certainly a family matter, and no place for someone like me. Besides, even if something happened to any of them—if Carver came and caught the Blight, or if anything happened to Garrett and Malia, I’d be there. I could do something, at least. I’d certainly be able to save Carver.

Maybe they heard my thoughts. Maybe this was how it was meant to be. But Carver was determined to join us in the Deep Roads, and his siblings were disinclined to make him stay. He grinned at me, a huge, delighted grin, as they came to stand with the rest of the crew. I could only think of how that grin would disappear soon, how rare it was even to start, and my heart ached. Bartrand stood before us to deliver his speech, but I barely heard a word.

 

It took barely two days to reach the entrance Bartrand found to the Deep Roads, and less than that for me to become entirely uncomfortable with the experience. Everyone noticed, of course, and at first kept asking if darkspawn were near. They weren’t, I said, over and over. Eventually, when we _did_ finally run into darkspawn, they trusted my judgement. Garrett, Malia, Carver, and Varric took turns staying near me. Sometimes they’d crowd around me.

It helped a little. At night, it helped a lot. Though, no one was really prepared for exactly what I had meant by ‘I’m plagued by nightmares of darkspawn, but that doesn’t mean they’re around,’ and I ended up being shaken into wakefulness over and over for the first week until the truth of it really sank in.

Not much else happened the first two weeks. We stayed somewhere around a week and a half’s walk below the surface after that—mostly because the tunnels deeper were simply too collapsed or otherwise dangerous for an entire group of non-Wardens to attempt navigating. Even Bartrand wasn’t so foolhardy as to try that.

Bodhan, bless his soul, never breathed a word of my ‘gift’ or how it led me places. He did follow any instructions I gave to the letter, though, as promised—not that I gave him many. Plus, since I was the darkspawn dowsing rod, most everyone listened if it came to matters concerning them, anyway, and I wasn’t much of one for issuing orders outside those parameters.

At some point, after a particularly good day for finds (though we had yet to reach the ancient thaig, thank the Creators), there was a small round of celebration. Like so many times before, in so many different circumstances, I took a turn to sing. Partially at Bodhan and Varric’s insistence, and partially because I wanted to.

“ _Far over the misty mountains cold,  
To dungeons deep and caverns old.  
We must away ere break of day,  
To find our long-forgotten gold_…”

 

And then it happened. The way ahead is collapsed, the scout said, and Bartrand shouted up a storm. A week since anything of worth. A week of frustration and growing discontent. Garrett intervened to offer his assistance, and while Bartrand accepted it, I had to insist rather forcefully that I would be of greater use scouting than acting as a warning bell for the camp.

The Hawkes, Varric, and I (plus Littlefoot, of course) ventured forth. Bodhan asked us to find Sandal, completely gone with worry, and when I promised he’d be returned safely, the smile he gave me was worth any dubious looks.

I tried not to hover around Carver. Really, I did. But I couldn’t help worrying—maybe I could prevent it, prevent him from being forced into the ranks of the Grey Wardens in the same way I was. If he chose to join them, that was fine! But no one should be forced to choose between the Wardens and death. Not when they had such a promising life.

Sandal was easy to find, and with all the expertise our group brought to the table (even Garrett, as sloppy as his fighting sometimes was), we had no issues fighting the darkspawn, even with Sandal in tow. The giant spiders were a somewhat different story.

I stayed as far from the spiders as I could, but when fighting an opponent almost the same size as the cavern you’re in, it’s nearly impossible to really keep any considerable distance. At least there was only one of such tremendous size. And Carver was really good at cutting down the—oh gods, the still-too-large-but-thankfully-smaller ones. Or, he was good at cutting them down before they could get to _me_. Garrett wasn’t as lucky, and had to shove the bladed end of his staff through at least two of them.

I threw up when we were done, and was shaking so bad that I had to be helped into an area that was ginormous-spider-corpse-free. They let me sit after that. Garrett rubbed my back while I put my head between my knees and thought happy thoughts.

“You can face down ogres like it’s nothing, but spiders are what mess you up?” Malia asked. I just whined in response. “Ogres can kind of think! Maybe. Do darkspawn think? They’re smarter than spiders, right?”

“Malia, please,” Garrett said. He sounded exasperated, and I couldn’t blame him. Here I was, a veteran of the Fifth fucking Blight, and I broke down because of enormous, monster spiders in the Deep Roads. What a joke of a Grey Warden, really.

“Piss off,” Carver added, which led to a new round of bickering between Malia and Carver. I say new because they never really seemed to stop for long, and this was probably the third time that day. Garrett just sighed.

Someone tapped me. I looked up to see Sandal, smiling benignly. He took my hand and pushed something into it. “Enchantment,” he told me.

I peered at the object he’d given me to see a geode. It had already been cracked open to reveal a gorgeous array of amethyst. Around the edge, a rune was repeated. I didn’t know what rune it was, but just holding the geode gave me a little sense of calm. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe not. I gave him the biggest smile I could. “Thank you, Sandal. It’s wonderful.”

His smile grew just a little, obviously happy that he’d helped even a little, and he clapped his hands. “Good enchantment!”

 

As we got deeper, I began to insist more and more on things that everyone else seemed to mostly find amusing. ‘Buddy system!’ I’d say, and they’d roll their eyes, but ultimately listen, because I was a Grey Warden. (It helped that once, a pair actually did run into darkspawn while out, and my buddy system saved both their lives.) ‘Take supplies!’ I’d say. This one went ignored by most people. I didn’t push it too much. Mostly I was concerned for what would happen when we found the ancient thaig—would we have enough food? Or would we be forced to hunt down deepstalkers?

I wasn’t exactly fond of deepstalker meat (which I’d eaten before, on an particularly unfortunate trip into the Deep Roads near Amaranthine), so I was thankful that at least Garrett and Carver listened to me about that one. Malia and Varric usually did, too, and Bodhan took my word as gospel, but everyone else? Not so much.

Thankfully, we had no sudden cave-ins that resulted in death or the sort of separation that would typically require supplies, so I focused mostly on feeling out pockets of darkspawn (and, when possible, avoiding them altogether). And not panicking. It was easier in the actual cave systems that we started to traverse when parts of the Deep Roads were cut off, because the lack of lava made the air cooler and easier to breathe.

When we found the ancient thaig, I thought it couldn’t have happened on a luckier day. For once, all six of us—Littlefoot included!—were carrying a variety of supplies on our little scouting mission. “Would you look at that,” Varric murmured as we stepped into view of the thaig.

I didn’t even pretend I wasn’t nervous. I didn’t have enough energy to do that much, and since I’d been perpetually nervous (the panic attack after the spiders was not the first nor the last) since entering the Deep Roads, no one said a thing. Littlefoot pressed a bit closer, almost tripping me as we walked, and Carver seemed to be hovering, but not a word was spoken on my obvious distaste for the Deep Roads as a whole.

A sense of shock kept me silent as we walked into the thaig and Malia found the idol. I should have said something. I could have. I should have destroyed that idol and as much of the red lyrium surrounding us as I could, but—

But I didn’t think about it at the time. Because I was entirely overwhelmed.

In Inquisition, the real Bianca—the dwarf for whom Varric’s crossbow is named—tells Varric and the Inquisitor that red lyrium isn’t actually different from normal lyrium. It just has the Blight. From the point of view of any and all characters present—even if Blackwall is there—this is shocking but not completely mindboggling. Lyrium is a mysterious material and the Blight is only barely understood as is, all of its secrets guarded jealously by the Grey Wardens.

I wasn’t prepared. For any of it. I thought I could feel darkspawn, or just their corruption the way it seeps into walls, but was too far to identify anything. Mythal have mercy, but I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. The teeming I felt, the slippery whispers, the quiet little touches that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end…

It was because of the red lyrium. Because of its combined magical power and Blighted corruption. Mages can feel lyrium like no one else can; I could see Garrett staring at the lyrium we passed in a state of awe. But only Grey Wardens can feel the Blight, because we are forever connected to it, a tiny extension of the Blight itself. I was both mage and Grey Warden. I felt everything.

If anything could corrupt the Fade itself, I thought, red lyrium can. The Veil was thin here; demons played just beyond the edges, sticking a toe into our world every now and then, but always being pulled back.

Well, I thought as I remembered the rock wraiths, almost always.

The door to the thaig slammed shut.

“Bartrand!” Varric called, and everyone else ran to the door, desperate. Fear demons laughed beyond the Veil. “Bartrand, the—the door! It shut behind you!”

I couldn’t hear Bartrand’s response, but I remembered enough of it, remembered the gist of what he’d say. ‘Oh, little brother, how foolish you are. Why should I split three ways when I can… not?’

“The door only opens one way,” I said, quietly. They were too far. They didn’t hear me. I let my hands clench just a bit too tightly around Maleficent’s strap, let the familiar leather impart its wisdom onto my skin (it was growing worn, growing thin; I would need to replace it soon). I called out, “This way.”

They turned to me, all entirely shocked, all scared. I was, too, in some ways, but not much more than I usually was. Fear was part of me. It couldn’t control me here. I smiled. “We can leave this way.” And I pointed behind me, behind the corrupted idol’s altar.

“You’re awfully calm, Mittens,” Varric observed as he drew close.

I laughed. My chest felt hollow. “Yes.”

“What’s wrong?” Garrett asked, putting his hands on my shoulders and leaning down so we were eye-to-eye. “You’re not acting like normal, Vir’era.”

I blinked at him. “No.” Then I smiled. “The Veil is thin here; did you feel it? We must be very careful. Demons are everywhere now. Do me a favor?” I waited for everyone to nod, then put on my most serious face. “Do not touch the red lyrium.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said, and when I looked at him, his eyes were on the empty altar. “Something tells me it’s not just because it’ll stain your fingers.”

“Do not touch the red lyrium,” I repeated. “It—can you hear it, Garrett? Can you feel it?” He clenched his jaw, but gave a very slow nod. “It’s not like normal lyrium. It’s worse.”

“And I just handed a huge piece to my apparently crazy brother. Great.” Varric huffed loudly, shooting a murderous glare at the door, which remained impassively shut, then turned to me once again. “Well, Mittens. You said there’s another way out, right? Lead on.”

 

It took all my focus and energy to not go mildly insane as we wandered that corrupted tomb to find a way back to the surface. The thin Veil and the Blight’s whispers pulled at me constantly. I was scared to do anything that required more thought than putting one foot in front of the other. Carver asked why I was acting so weird, and I had to pause so that I could find the right words.

“The Veil is thin, which is hard enough on a mage. And… and this red lyrium… it’s… It makes things worse,” I said, very slowly. “And the Blight is everywhere.”

No one asked after that.

We met the rock wraith, but I was entirely uninterested in letting either Garrett or Malia even consider its ‘offer’ for more than a half-second. So I blasted it with Winter’s Grasp. I should have warned everyone (no one else had their weapons drawn, and there was a mad scramble), but as I said—very little thought space for anything other than moving forward. Not that I thought either Hawke would make a deal with a demon. But I wanted the fight over with.

Killing that thing seemed like a good idea, overall—none of the smaller rock wraiths appeared afterwards, and we walked unimpeded through the rest of the thaig to the treasure room. Just how long it had been since finding the corrupted idol, I wasn’t certain. Twelve hours, maybe. Less? More?

I fell into a fitful sleep by the door, with Littlefoot as my pillow.

 

_A beautiful song. The most beautiful, even. Completely unlike anything I’d heard before, more wonderful than any mortal choir and more enchanting than any mage’s spell. The song curled around my soul, almost purring at me. It liked me. It wanted me. I wanted it. I reached a hand out to touch it, but suddenly it was far away, beyond my grasp._

_I frowned and tried again. The song continued to elude me, but did not stray far, making sure I could hear its wordless wonders regardless of our physical proximity. It looked like a dragon, this song, I thought. A large dragon, with gorgeous wings. Yes. Yes, of course it was a dragon. What else could so splendiferous a song be but a dragon? Nothing matched their power, their grace, their rule._

_The song met my eyes with its own. They were the brightest color, unmatched in the natural world, piercing and hypnotizing. The dragon opened its great maw, and the song swept into a crescendo that vibrated my bones. I was but an instrument in this. I reached again to the dragon, to the song. It smiled, a smile like garnets, a smile like rubies, like blood-colored moons._

_It wanted me to touch it now. I could see it better this time. Yes, I had its permission. I should touch it before that was rescinded. I should thank it with gentle strokes. I should—_

 

“Vir’era!!”

I jolted backwards and fell. Someone caught me. In front of me, less than an arm’s length away was a pillar of red lyrium. I yelped and tried to scramble further away, but only managed to step on the foot of whoever had kept me from hitting the ground in the first place.

“Maker’s balls!”

After a moment of chaos and confused reorganization of limbs, I turned to see Carver. “C-carver?” I asked. My heart was pounding in my ears. What had just happened?

“Yeah,” he said, frowning at me. “Are… are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. When I glanced around, I realized we were still in the treasure room, but this was definitely not where I’d fallen asleep. “What—was I—did I sleepwalk?”

He shifted awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I think so. I, er, noticed you walking away, but at first I thought you just had to, er, answer nature’s call, you know, so I didn’t… But then you went right for this, and when I tried calling your name, you didn’t respond, so.”

I swallowed, trying to will myself to calm down. “Thank you, Carver. I… This stuff is dangerous. I shouldn’t… I probably shouldn’t go back to sleep until we’re far, far away from it.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, leaning down a bit. He was a little closer to eye-level with me this way, but, frankly, he still towered well over my head. It was intimidating, sometimes. A comfort others (hide behind Carver during a battle and no one will ever notice you). “You seemed really exhausted—I could watch you.” Then he turned bright red. “N-not in a creepy way, I mean! Just—just to make sure you’re not sleepwalking!”

I gave him a small, weary smile. “Thank you, but… Even if you devoted all your time to making sure I stayed where I was supposed to, I don’t think it’s a good idea for a person like me to sleep in a place like this.”

“Because you’re a mage?” If I were the sort to analyze the emotions behind people’s words, I might think he was worried about Garrett. Maybe I was.

“Because I am a Warden mage.”

He frowned again. “What’s being a Warden have to do with it?”

“It has everything to do with it, Carver,” I said, my voice sad even to my own ears. “But there are some things that must be kept within the Order, and I’m afraid this is one. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

He nodded, obviously a bit disappointed that I couldn’t divulge more, but at least he respected me enough not to badger. It was a precious gift, that trust. I couldn’t tell him.

Even if I knew he would be a Warden within two weeks.

 

Two days later—possibly two days, even Varric wasn’t certain—I began to feel the Blight within Carver. I didn’t want to wait for it to drag him down, for him to look as sick as he eventually would, before I alerted everyone. But Carver deserved to know first.

“Carver,” I said, long after we made camp, as he sat at first watch.

“Vir’era?” he asked, glancing toward me. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But there’s something you need to know, and I thought you might prefer some privacy for this discussion.” Not that I was entirely certain everyone else was asleep (it was possible Varric was just very good at faking it), but there wasn’t going to be a better time.

“S-something I need to know?” He shifted a little when I came to sit near him. I could see the way his eyes widened in the dimness of the cave. He looked nervous to me. “Um, sure. What is it?”

I didn’t look away from him. Just how well he could see, I wasn’t certain—as an elf, I had better vision in the dark, and while we weren’t terribly far from one of the lava flows, we were in a more shadowy area, a little defensible nook. Still, he kept his gaze on mine, so I could only assume that he at least could see my eyes. Hopefully he would know I spoke the truth with no ill intents.

“You’re sick, Carver.” I kept my voice very low, barely audible, so our sleeping companions wouldn’t hear. “With the Blight.”

His breath caught, and he tensed, but he didn’t look away. “Wh-what?”

“You have the Blightsickness.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, I can’t have it. I-I-I don’t want to end up like Wesley. Please tell me you’re lying. This has to be a trick.”

“Carver…” I put a hand on his arm. He didn’t shrug it off or flinch away, which was a good sign, but he didn’t relax, either. “Ir abelas. I wish that were true, but you know it’s not. I can feel it in you.”

“ _Maker._ ” It was a prayer, I thought. A plea. “Please, you can’t tell Garrett or Malia. Please. I-I’ll do it, I swear I will, but I just—I want—”

“There’s a cure,” I interrupted, overwhelmed by his desperation. “O-or, well, sort of, because it might kill you, but if it doesn’t—i-if it doesn’t kill you, you’ll…” I choked on my words. How could I do this to him? What sort of monster was I?

“Tell me,” he said, leaning in towards me. Both his hands were on my shoulders, gripping just this side of too tight. His face was barely a breath away, and I could see every detail of his eyes with utmost clarity. “I’ll do anything. I can’t die yet. I can’t do that to Mother.”

And that was the deciding factor. Not that I’d ever even so much as considered not telling Carver, but—now I knew I couldn’t wait to tell him later. I couldn’t do that to him, just as he couldn’t let himself die. He couldn’t bring yet another death to the Hawke family, and since I was the one who knew how to stop it… Well, I’d stop it.

“You’ll have to become a Grey Warden.” I watched his face, watched the confusion at my words, and continued, “Please, listen. I am not lying to you. Dirthavara—I promise. This… it happened to me, too. Before Ostagar.” I hadn’t told them this part. Not in any detail. It was just vague mentions of Duncan and being recruited. They hadn’t needed to know then, and I didn’t want to tell them. I took a deep breath. “There… there was an eluvian, an ancient elven artifact, near… near Clan Sabrae. It was corrupted.

“I-I don’t know exactly how, but somehow, when Theron and his friend Tamlen went to investigate it… I was there, a-and… And the eluvian—it cursed us all. Tamlen disappeared. He became a ghoul. But Theron and I w-were only sick. With the Blight. That’s when Duncan found us. I-I mentioned Duncan before. He recruited us. But, well… He didn’t recruit us like he recruited the others. They were chosen because they were strong and capable warriors.

“Theron and I were chosen because if we did not go, we would die. We almost did, but Keeper Marethari and Merrill—th-they saved us. I owe Clan Sabrae my life as much as I do the Grey Wardens. B-between their healing and the Joining, I didn’t succumb to the Blight, but I carry it with me always. That’s what it means to be a Grey Warden, Carver. You… you become as much a part of the Blight as not.”

“But I would live?” he asked. He hadn’t moved back during the whole explanation, hadn’t lessened the pressure of his hands on my shoulders. Not that I blamed him. I’d likely do the same in his position. I’d probably cry, actually. I tended to cry a lot.

“There… there is a chance you could die. But… you’re strong, Carver.” I put one of my hands on top of his and squeezed it. “If I could make it through, weak as I was, you certainly can. I believe that much. I wouldn’t give you false hope.”

“Vir’era…” He pulled me into a hug that almost crushed my bones, pressing me so tightly to him that I was grateful to be wearing armor. “Thank you.”

I just hugged him back and hoped that I hadn’t changed the course of history irreversibly once more, hoped that we would find the Grey Wardens on their own mission soon.

 

I felt the Grey Wardens long before I heard or saw them. By that time, Garrett, Malia, and Varric had been made aware of Carver’s situation, and they knew who we were looking for. Malia hovered around Carver in a way I never thought I’d see, considering how often they bickered about even the most mundane of things. Garrett, too, though that was somewhat less surprising.

Carver already looked halfway gone. I used as much healing magic as I knew and dared to try, but nothing could hide the odd grey pallor to his skin or how deeply his eyes seemed to have sunk. Sometimes he coughed black blood. That was the worst. Garrett and Malia took turns helping him to walk—he had enough humility in him to know that he could not get far on his own, and we were walking very far.

Everyone knew the second I felt the other Wardens. I stood straighter and almost stopped in my tracks, trying to figure out just what direction they were. I swore for a second that the odd presences I felt at the edge of my conscience did the same—that the other Wardens were looking for me just as I looked for them.

“Can you feel them?” Malia demanded of me, rushing to my side. “Where are they?”

“Y-yes, I—I think they’re this… Just a little more to our right, but they’re—they’re close enough,” I said, “and I think we can find them within the hour if there are no cave-ins—if this… If this continues straight forward.”

We walked with renewed urgency. It was hard to go fast, laden down as we were by both Carver and whatever treasures we had managed to fit into our packs from the ancient thaig. (It was a lot, to be certain, but—well, we left more than we took.)

As I had predicted—as I had hoped—we found the other Wardens within the hour. But before I saw them, I started running. I ran to them, because among their number I could feel a presence far too familiar, and it set my heart to racing. My companions called out to me, but I didn’t stop. Littlefoot, possibly sensing something the same way I did, ran at my side, tongue lolling and face ecstatic.

Figures ahead turned the lone corner in this long hallway. I recognized a few of them by sight, but only one by heart, and that same one started running to me.

“Vir’era!”

“Nathaniel!”

We met in the middle, crashing into each other hard enough to bruise, to hurt, but I didn’t care, and I don’t think he did either, not from how he clutched me close and buried his face in my (greasy, unwashed, disgusting) hair. “Maker have mercy,” he whispered, and his breath tickled my ear and my heart in one fell swoop.

(Swooping is bad, a voice whispered.) I squeezed tightly, my eyes shut desperately against the rest of the world, trying to hold back the tears I knew I had no right to shed. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

“Ir abelas,” I answered. “Ir abelas.” And then I pulled away, because I could not do this to him. I wasn’t going back to Amaranthine. Not yet, and maybe not ever. And he understood, because his eyes grew sad and his smile drooped, even though he still held my hand tight.

(I had missed him, too. Hadn’t let myself think of him. But with him here, in front of me—Creators, but it was hard to say no. I couldn’t pull my hand away.)

Beside Nathaniel, pushing between us now with great impatience, was Edelweiss. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought to see her here, of all places. But she was unmistakable, her white coat so bright even after traveling in the Deep Roads. And what other halla would be with Grey Wardens?

“When I told her where we were going, she insisted on coming with. I think she knew that we would see you again,” Nathaniel explained, petting her fondly with his free hand. She gently butted her head against my side, a firm little reprimand.

“I missed you too, lethallan,” I said. I scratched behind her horns the way I knew she liked, and she pressed into the touch like a pleased cat.

“She wants to stay with you. Wherever you go. I asked her.” He didn’t say that he wanted the same, but I suspected as much. Unlike a halla, though, he had other responsibilities. He couldn’t stay with me, nor I with him.

I smiled at Edelweiss, but it was a strained smile. “I don’t have a place in Kirkwall for you, but there is a clan on Sundermount. They would take care of you.” She sniffed at me, then butted my side again, and I took it for agreement. Littlefoot demanded her attention when that was settled, and she gave it readily.

“Vir’era,” said a new voice, with a mild lilt that only Orlesians ever gave my name. I turned to Ser Stroud, his mustache large and proud as ever, and nodded respectfully.

“Ser Stroud,” I said. I heard my companions shuffle up behind me wordlessly, and I moved so that Garrett and Malia could bring Carver up. “I… have a recruit for you.”

Stroud pursed his lips at Carver, taking in the obvious onset of Blightsickness with distaste. “Vir’era, regardless of the circumstances of your own Joining—”

“It isn’t a question,” I interrupted, feeling much braver than I thought I ever had before. Maybe it was Nathaniel’s doing. I could only hope not—he would not be able to stand by my side eternally. I had to fight my own battles, even if I started here. Stroud blinked at me, eyebrows raised, and I put my free hand on Carver’s shoulder. “Carver Hawke is a more than capable warrior. I am no fool. The life of a Grey Warden is as much as sentence as the Blightsickness, you and I both know this. But he was at Ostagar, and I have fought at his side many times now, both here in the Deep Roads and above on the surface, against darkspawn and demons alike. You will take him, Ser Stroud. I will write Castor to let him know to expect you to return with an extra Warden in your ranks.”

Stroud narrowed his eyes at me then. “You are so certain that he will survive the Joining?”

“I would stake my own life on it.”

Nathaniel squeezed my hand, apparently alarmed, but said nothing. I squeezed back and hoped it was enough reassurance. Stroud stood silent, engaging me in a test of wills.

“Please, Ser Stroud.” It was Malia. All eyes turned to her, all equally surprised—even Garrett and Carver. “Please, I promise he will be no burden. He’s a Hawke. We wouldn’t ask this of you lightly.” It was the most diplomatic I’d ever heard her, the most complimentary she’d ever been of her brother, and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Fine.” Stroud glared at Carver. “Don’t let me regret this.”

“Never,” Carver swore.

Nathaniel let go of my hand at my own silent urging to take Carver from his siblings. I watched them say goodbye, each in their own way. Both Garrett and Malia spilled tears—and it was little wonder. This was the second time they’d lost someone so dear to the Blight. I hated myself a little for it. Maybe I should have insisted that Carver stay.

But this was probably best for him. He could outgrow their shadows in the Wardens, could really become his own person. _Mythal watch over you, Carver_. Edelweiss and Littlefoot came to stand on either side of me as if to give me their strength during the proceedings.

Carver and Nathaniel turned to me next. “Will you come with us?” Nathaniel asked. He knew the answer, I was certain of that, but I could not fault him for hoping, for asking anyways. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to be at his side.

“No,” I said. “Ir abelas, da’assan. I’m needed in Kirkwall right now.”

“Thought you’d say that.” I couldn’t read the emotions on his face. “Be safe, Vir’era.”

“You too.”

“Keep Malia and Garrett from getting themselves killed,” Carver added. His voice was weak, but the humor in the statement still came through, and I chuckled a little.

“I promise. Take care of Nathaniel for me, Carver.”

“You really are confident I’ll life.”

“I am.”

“Then I’d hate to let you down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _da'assan_ \- little arrow, an endearment (constructed by me, might also be on the wiki?)
> 
> <3


	10. and at last i see the light

When we reached the surface, I had to stop and simply enjoy the feeling of the sun on my face. None of us were entirely sure where we were, but the cave we’d followed out was near the coast of what could only be the Amaranthine Sea. So, unless we’d managed to travel entirely under the sea and into Ferelden (which, while possible, was doubtful), Kirkwall was to the west.

We did make a short trek to the east, where we could hear a river, because we all desperately wanted to at least rinse ourselves of the dirt and other unspeakable grime from the Deep Roads. It didn’t cost us more than half a day total, including the actual bathing, and therefore was well worth it.

It took almost two and a half weeks to get back to Kirkwall. This was mostly because at one point, we reached a dead end of sheer cliff-face that we couldn’t climb, and the detour alone took us two extra days. (We may have also gotten turned around due to straying too far from the coastline.)

I didn’t go back to the city immediately. At the Wounded Coast, Malia, Garrett, and Varric managed to negotiate with a merchant to get a ride in on her wagon, so I unloaded all the treasure that Littlefoot and I had been carrying, and then he, Edelweiss, and I set off for Sundermount instead.

I couldn’t keep Edelweiss in Darktown. Not only was there simply not enough food, let alone any that she could reasonably eat, I was worried that some refugees might make her into food instead. There was only so much they could take, and a halla was not like a wardog or a healer’s cat. To them, I didn’t doubt that Edelweiss would merely look like food.

So I brought her instead to Clan Sabrae. They needed halla, anyway, and while this single halla would not be enough, I was certain that they would appreciate her nonetheless.

Mheganni stopped me long before I reached the clan. In her arms, she cradled a bird. We stood stock-still and stared at each other for a long moment, until her bird (whose wing, I noticed, was at an angle it really shouldn’t be) began to protest with tiny, upset sounds.

“Ir abelas, ir abelas,” she murmured to it, rubbing a hand against its head. Her eyes flicked back up to me. “Vir’era. Do you have more letters?”

I shook my head. “No. I… I have not yet returned to the city.”

“Then why are you here?” She frowned at me, but never stopped petting the bird. It calmed under her fingers, like magic.

“Edelweiss needs a home,” I said, and gestured to the halla at my side. Mheganni said nothing. She stared at Edelweiss. I continued, “I can’t keep her in Darktown. She… Nathaniel said she insisted on coming to me. I-I was hoping that Clan Sabrae might be willing to take her in. I know your halla are all…” I didn’t want to say the words.

Mheganni nodded once. “The Keeper will be pleased. Follow me.”

I didn’t really need to follow her, as we were on a trail very near the camp, but I did so anyways. A hunter on his way out waved at Mheganni, then paused in surprise at her entourage. I smiled at him, hoping that maybe Mheganni was the only one from the clan with a grudge against me. He seemed mostly confused. Not that I could blame him.

Mheganni led me as far as the first aravels, then just pointed further on. “The Keeper’s over that way, probably. I need to take care of this owl. You can find her yourself.”

A measure of trust, more or less. “Alright. Ma serannas, Mheganni.” She nodded and turned on her heel, heading to a small cluster of aravels in a very different direction, hidden just beyond a copse of trees. I watched her only for a moment before gathering my courage to speak with Keeper Marethari on my own.

“Keeper?” I asked when I saw her. She and Feynriel stood outside the brightest aravel, apparently practicing magic. They both looked up and smiled when they heard me.

“Vir’era,” Marethari said. “Andaran atish’an. To what do we owe the pleasure, da’len? Have you brought more letters from Theron?”

“Ir abelas, Keeper, I have not. I have another friend I would ask for your help with.” I gestured to Edelweiss, and Marethari’s eyes widened.

“A halla? But where did you find her, da’len?” She reached a careful hand out, and Edelweiss met it eagerly, pressing her nose into Marethari’s touch. Feynriel stood in the background, obviously entranced by her. I doubted he’d ever seen a halla, though perhaps Arianni had told him about them. They were so important to Dalish life, after all.

“In Amaranthine.” I paused, unsure how to say all that had led to Edelweiss coming here. “She… Edelweiss, that’s her name, she came to stay with the Grey Wardens there at the same time as Velanna. Their clan was destroyed. I didn’t see any of their other halla, but… Well, she seems to have grown attached to me. Nathaniel—he, um, he’s one of the other Amaranthine Wardens—he told me that she insisted on joining them for an expedition here when he told her. Because I was here. She—he said she wanted to stay with me. But I can’t—Darktown… Kirkwall is no place for a halla, Keeper.”

“It is no place for an elf,” she returned, but did not press the issue. Not that I had expected she would. As good a person as she was… I don’t think she cared about the non-Dalish who were stuck in the slums. Not in the same way she cared that Merrill was. Not even in the same way that she cared that I was.

“Would Clan Sabrae watch her?” I asked. “I cannot protect her in Darktown, and she knows this. But this way she can be near, and back somewhere that she belongs.”

Marethari gave me a slow smile. Something about it reminded me of the toffees my grandmother used to give me, a lifetime ago. “Yes, da’len,” she said, “we would be most honored to help her. Edel… What did you say her name was?”

“Edelweiss. It’s a flower as white as her fur.”

 

After finding Edelweiss a home, my next obligation—though one I looked to with significantly less enthusiasm—was to report to Meredith. She had specifically asked that I make this report in person, for a variety of reasons.

“Warden,” she said when I entered her office. I’d found it on my own this time. Cullen was there, too. A coincidence, I hoped.

I gave her a respectful nod. “Knight-Commander.” Littlefoot sat down next to me, panting shamelessly. While we were cleaner than we had been when we first emerged, I doubted our appearances or smells were particularly pleasing. I definitely had a few new stains on my armor and clothes. “I’ve just returned from the Deep Roads. I’m here to give you my report, as asked.”

She hummed and sat behind her desk, but did not motion for me to do the same, so I didn’t dare. It was a power play, and I had no reason to be belligerent and every reason to simply comply. “Start from the beginning, then.”

“Yes, ser. The maps that Bartrand Tethras used were, in fact, the same maps I was looking for. My original mission in your city is done. However…” I winced. “There were complications, I’m afraid. We found an artifact that seemed to hold great power, but—um, the short of it is that Bartrand betrayed us. Th-the artifact is somewhere else now, I don’t know where. Bartrand still has it, and… Knight-Commander, I’m afraid that I will have to stay in Kirkwall so that I can monitor the situation.”

Her eyes narrowed at me. “Why should I allow this, Warden? Can you not monitor it from Amaranthine?”

She’d been so friendly at the end of my first visit here. Had that changed when she learned that I was sympathetic to apostates? Certainly such was obvious by now, even if she could do nothing about it. “There are some matters that I simply cannot give you details on, Knight-Commander. I-I’m sorry. The Grey Wardens are a secretive order, and this artifact… I cannot leave until it’s found, Knight-Commander, I’m sorry.”

“Fine. But do not cause trouble, Warden, or I will not be lenient.”

It was the best I’d get, and more than I’d dared hope for. I had been prepared to simply live in semi-hiding with Anders. At least this way, I could continue life somewhere close to normal. I needed that. I needed the stability so I could worry on things other than simply not dying.

Cullen accompanied me out. It felt like an escort more than simple convenience, the way he feigned, but I knew better than to challenge. A mage surrounded by Templars is very vulnerable. Besides, he seemed… smaller than last time, somehow. He still had a foot on me in height and could likely break my bones without breaking a sweat, but instead of towering like a looming shadow, he simply walked at my side.

It was nice.

“Mia keeps writing about you,” he said, suddenly. I blinked up at him, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. “She seems to think you’re being exceptionally patient with me, and that I need to apologize for my actions.”

“She’s a very kind woman,” I replied, trying to keep my tone mild. I couldn’t deny wanting an apology from Cullen, because he had reacted so poorly and nearly forced my hand in several different directions, but I also couldn’t really blame him, because I had dropped unfamiliar magic on him when he had so recently been very badly hurt by similar tactics.

“She is.” He didn’t apologize. “She… told me that you’re the one who told her that I was alive. And that you’ve written to her ever since. Mostly.” Still not an apology, but maybe something better.

“It’s true,” I said, trying to be careful with my words. “After… Um, I’ve—I know how horrible it is. T-to not know if someone’s alive. And I wanted to spare her that fate, if I could. And… And I thought it might be good. For you.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment. The only sound between us was that of our footsteps, of Littlefoot’s panting. The silence stretched like a canyon between us, and I couldn’t deny that there was a part of me who was extremely disappointed in it. That same part of me wanted to close the awkward distance somehow, to at least make sure he knew that I was still the same Grey Warden from Kinloch Hold. I hadn’t changed much. I just wanted to help, and his story was such a tragic one…

The meddler in me, not quite the same part that wanted to be friends with everyone, but close—that meddler wanted to try and help him change his mind earlier than last time, to maybe help him see how extreme Meredith was. But I didn’t know how, not without causing more harm, and I’d changed enough for him already. Who knows how he would change?

“Thank you, Vir’era.”

My heart stopped in my chest for a split second, and I turned wide eyes onto Cullen. He was looking at me, this time, his face indecipherable but sincere.

“Anytime,” I managed.

He’d used my name again.

 

[Letters.]

Vir’era,

Hopefully you get this before you go on that expedition, but I’m not about to count my eggs before they hatch. I’ve lived on a farm all my life and I know better than that.

You stop apologizing to me. I already forgave you, got it? And since I’m nagging you anyway, let me tell you a few other things you’re not allowed to do with me. For one, you can’t go around saying you’re selfish. You’re a Blighted Grey Warden. I’m pretty damn sure that’s about one of the least selfish professions Thedas has to offer. Except maybe being a Chantry sister, but elves can’t do that, so you’re shit out of luck there.

For another, don’t you dare say it was your fault that Cullen got his knickers in a twist! Shapeshifter or not, his past or not, he could have really hurt you! Neither of you have said a word on just what happened, but I’m a smart girl. I can read through the lines, and I know what Templars usually do to mages, and I know that he’s perfectly aware you’re not the sort that he needs to be so scared of! You are a good person, Vir’era Sabrae, no matter what you or my brother think. You saved him and then you saved Honnleath and then you saved all of Ferelden, and you even managed to let me know he was safe. Only a good person would do that.

That said. I might have to ponder a bit on just how good you are, considering you told me that you left your beau behind. Now why in all the world would you do a thing like that, Vir’era? You might be a good person, but you’re also a knucklehead. Damn you. I’m going to have to write that boy a letter on your behalf, aren’t I? And it’ll be late, because you never thought to tell me what was happening in your life.

I can’t decide if I hope you never have to know why most of us fear magic or if I pray that you’ll never experience it, but either way, I want you to know that I trust you. Maybe I’m a fool for it. I don’t care. I trust you, Vir’era. Don’t you dare make me regret that, or I’ll come for you personally, you hear me?

Mia Rutherford, 9:31 Dragon

 

Mia,

Elgarnan’s tooth, if you sent any letters to Nathaniel… Well, I don’t know just what I’ll do, but I’ll be very upset. He doesn’t need to be reminded of what I’ve put him through, and I feel bad enough as is.

I’ve just gotten back from the expedition, so your letter only reached after I’d left. I’ll stop with the apologies for the past, but if I do something else in the future, I’ll certainly apologize, then, too. I’m not a perfect person, as you obviously are aware, but I try to do the right thing. That’s all. Sometimes it’s easy, like with saving Honnleath and Ferelden and your brother, but sometimes it’s not, like when I left Nathaniel in Amaranthine.

Oh, Mia. I think he will always be my biggest regret. I saw him in the Deep Roads. I didn’t know he would be there—he wasn’t supposed to—but… But it seems he insisted. It was so hard to see him only to say goodbye again. Creators, I hope it gets easier, or I’ll be doomed.

He brought Edelweiss with him. Or maybe she brought him with her. I’m not sure. He told me that she was very persistent about seeing me again. That she wanted to come with me and stay near me. It damn near broke my heart in two. I can’t keep her here in the city, and especially not down in Darktown where my clinic is, so I took her to a nearby Dalish clan. Their halla all died when they were fleeing the Blight, so they were happy to give her a home. I just hope she doesn’t mind it. I’ll have to visit her as often as I can.

Since I know you’ll be curious, I’ll tell you a little of what happened on the Deep Roads Expedition. It was a disaster, though, so consider this fair warning.

The first couple weeks were fine. Or, at least, they were as fine as anything can be when you’re underground in notoriously old tunnels that, though ostensibly sturdy, have been around for so long that they could fall on you at any time. So I was scared shitless the whole time. I’d rather fight another horde of darkspawn on the surface than spend a peaceful month in the Deep Roads, thank you very much. (Orzammar is different, though. At least they don’t have unexplained collapses.)

I won’t tell you where, and I won’t tell you what, but we found a place more ancient than the rest of the Deep Roads while we were down there, and we found an artifact that shouldn’t exist. But Bartrand stole it and locked us in. I think he meant for us to die—me, the Hawke family, and Varric—but we’re sturdier than that. We got out, eventually, and even found an entirely separate and probably more valuable treasure horde at the very back of that ancient place.

Carver didn’t make it, in a manner of speaking. He contracted the Blightsickness. That’s a death sentence, but… Well, like I said earlier, we ran into the Grey Wardens from Amaranthine. I was able to convince them to take Carver. He’ll make a good Warden, I think. Maybe even a great one. And Nathaniel will make sure he’s safe—and if I’m lucky, Carver will make sure Nathaniel’s safe. Castor can’t. He’s got bigger concerns, and I won’t put that on him. But Carver can do it, and I’m confident he’s strong enough to.

Now I’m back in Kirkwall, back in my little clinic with Anders and Ser Pounce-a-Lot. I don’t plan on leaving again for a while. Anders needs my help, and I need to be here for other matters. I can’t tell you about them, because a Warden must keep his secrets, but I’ll be here. I’ll be better about writing, too.

Best wishes to you.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

Castor,

We found an ancient thaig, one so old that it barely looks dwarven, and it was covered in the Blight, like it breathed it in and forgot to let it back out. Please, for the sake of everything, do not go looking for it. I’ll come report to you in person if I must, but you must promise me that you will let that evil place be forgotten. No good will ever come of its discovery.

I would return on my own, but Bartrand removed something from that thaig, and it needs to be found, to be returned and never see the light of day again. It was an idol made of red lyrium, and I tell you this only that you might know to destroy it if ever it comes to your attention. It’s not something I can really describe, the difference between normal lyrium and the red sort, but it should not be touched, should not be messed with. Promise me, Castor, that if ever you come across red lyrium, you will destroy it. It is as evil as the Blight itself.

Bartrand also stole the maps that Anders had. I made notations on the maps, of cave-ins and new darkspawn tunnels, but I couldn’t possibly remember them all if I had a different copy. I’m sorry. I’ll search for them as well as the idol, and if ever I find them, those, at least, I will send back to you. Those are safe enough. We ventured off their pages when we found the ancient thaig. If all goes well, if I manage to do what I’m hoping to do, that evil place will stay forgotten and abandoned.

Unless you have great need of me elsewhere, I’ll stay here in Kirkwall, and will inform you should that change. What I came here for is not yet over. It won’t be for a long while.

Also, and I hope you aren’t angry with me for this, I have… recruited someone for you. Carver Hawke is a strong and capable warrior, and I have no doubts that he will survive his Joining. Hopefully this letter will reach you before Ser Stroud returns with him in tow--I did promise to write to you of this development, but this is the first I’ve had a chance, and I apologize if I’m late. Carver will be an asset to the Wardens, though, and I ask only that you keep an eye on him that he does not get himself needlessly killed. He has a reckless streak a mile wide that is the reason I am sending him to you. Like me, like Theron, he became sick with the Blight, and this was the only option for him.

He’ll do well, though. I promise you that, and you can certainly blame me if he is anything less. And… let him write home, please. His mother—I have never met her, but I know enough--she will worry endlessly, and has already lost one child to the Blight. I wouldn’t see her lose another, wouldn’t see his older siblings lose him, too.

Say hello to everyone for me. I miss you all dearly. Littlefoot, too.

Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vee,

Dammit, Vee. I swear someday you’ll do something that nearly gets you killed. Whatever you know or don’t know, I need you alive. Even though you and Theron aren’t here, and Maker knows what Daylen’s doing, the simple fact that I have actual proof you’re still around and kicking, doing something good, even if it’s not what it should be--which, you should know, is fighting darkspawn like the rest of us Wardens—that’s enough to inspire people, you know? I’ve had more elves join the Wardens than I thought would ever happen, because they know about you and Darrien and Theron and Neria, and they know we don’t look down on them.

It’ll make me look bad if you die doing something stupid like finding long-forgotten thaigs in the Blighted Deep Roads (apparently literally). Wait until your Calling if you want to die down there. You’ve got about thirty years yet, and I don’t want to get a regretful letter from someone I don’t know—or, Maker forbid, the bloody Knight-Commander—telling me you’re dead or Tranquil or what-have-you because you couldn’t keep your nose damn well out of anyone’s business.

You know things, and I understand that—but if I’m going to promise to look after whatever wayward souls you send my way, and I don’t give a flying fuck if Carver’s technically the first, because I remember you talking about Zevran before we ever found him, you best promise me that you’ll look after yourself.

And if you know where in the Maker’s good name Daylen is, or what the fuck he’s doing, bloody tell me. I need a new healer. Neria’s shite at it, and the Circle’s refusing to send any mages my way.

Castor

_ps - sorry castor was drunk and shite at feelings. I’ll try not to let him drink so much before writing you again. But he’s right you know. Keep safe or I’ll come kick your ass myself. -Darrien_

 

Vir’era,

Merrill always was a stubborn one. Even if she’s very naive sometimes, she’s never stopped something once she’s put her mind to it. If she’s this determined, she must think it’s something good for the clan, or too important to matter even if it’s not. I know Merrill well enough that I’m certain it can only be with the best intentions what she’s deviating from what even the Keeper wants. She didn’t tell me what she’s doing in her letter. If it’s so sensitive a subject, I will stop asking. Just look out for her, please?

Mheganni sent me a letter, too. She tells me you brought a young shemlen to the clan to study under the Keeper. I assume he is an apostate, and maybe his mother or father was Dalish, but I hope you know what you are doing. He won’t be appreciated there, and will be little more than an outcast. Apostates generally fare better in shem cities. If you think he was worthwhile, I do not question your judgment, as it is very rarely wrong. Just be careful. Mheganni does not care for you now, and there is little I can say from so far that will soothe her anger.

On the subject of your home—lethallin, ir abelas, ir abelas. Such a loss is not something borne lightly, and even I cannot imagine it. I chose to leave, in a manner of speaking, and I have chosen not to return. You chose neither. I hope with all that I have that this is where you are destined to be, and that you will be happy. Whatever your mission, whatever it is that brought you to Kirkwall and keeps you there, do not let it overwhelm you entirely. You deserve some small measure of happiness at the very least, and likely a great deal more.

May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

Theron Mahariel, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vir’era,

I’ll keep your words about the elves and Shianni in mind. It’s not going to be easy, and sometimes Capella talks about things like gradual integration or whatever will please the nobles the most, but I think I’ll manage a happy medium between her and Shianni so that I can avoid being overthrown by either my own wife or a rebellion from the Alienage. Hopefully. I mean, some nobles will be upset, but they were already mad that I made Shianni into a Bann, and even Anora mostly agrees with me. She’s a bit more likely to support Capella than Shianni, though. Makes sense. I can’t tell if she and Capella are friends or mortal enemies. They’re scary either way.

If I’m putting the pieces together right (and I think I am, because I’m not that stupid), then I’m guessing your little gift is what has you in Kirkwall right now, isn’t it? I really hope you’re not doing something entirely stupid, being in Kirkwall, but you did keep us all alive, more or less, and I think there’s something to be said for that. So just make sure you stay on alert, I guess. That’s really all I can ask for. If you say your new friends are capable and strong or whatever, I think I believe you.

Now, about my family matters. Vir’era, if you’re lying to me, I’ll… Well, I’m not entirely sure just what I’ll do but I will be very upset and probably will regret whatever happens. Try and come here soon. Whatever you have to say might not be of grave importance to the kingdom, and maybe you’ve got things that are more important in Kirkwall, but if Goldanna isn’t my sister like I was told, then my history is a much greater mess than I thought it was, and I’d really rather know these things about myself, so that no one else can just figure them out and maybe try to use them against me. Which isn’t something I ever thought I’d be saying, but I guess Capella’s getting to me.

I just—look, I know you can’t drop everything to run and tell me about this, but it’s important to me. I don’t have any connection to my parents, not really, and even less if this means the woman I thought my mother was is just a lie. And from the way you wouldn’t put it in a letter, I know it’s something big. So, please, Vir’era. As soon as you get the chance, come to Denerim. I need to know. I’ll keep a room ready for you.

Alistair Theirin, 9:31 Dragon

 

Alistair,

Ir abelas. I didn’t mean to make you worry so. It was rude of me.

Littlefoot and I will be in Denerim soon. In time for the new year, if all goes well. I’ll tell you everything then. I just hope you can forgive me.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note-- not sure how many of you ever look at my tumblr, which is entirely unnecessary for comprehension of this anyway, but i am currently out of pre-written chapters, and with the state of my life rn i may not be able to continue weekly updates for a while. as soon as i can, i'll get back to them, and for the duration of the time that i cannot, i promise to at least put small bits up in missing moments. i will update every friday with SOMETHING, be it a missing moments piece or a proper chapter. i'm sorry for this, and i hope you continue to enjoy this fic!


	11. like a strand in the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inching along.......... life is slowly getting back to normal. i'm moving at the end of the month, too, so when that's over & done with, hopefully it'll all be settled and i can get back to writing regularly hahaha

Years passed, and I stayed in Kirkwall, stayed in the damp Darktown underbelly, amid the desperate and the forgotten. I healed the refugees that couldn’t find work and couldn’t return to Ferelden. I stayed near Anders, who seemed a little happier for my presence, a little less lonely. It was hard to tell how much was my own doing, though. Hard to remember what he was supposed to be like.

I forgot most things. The shape of the house I’d grown up in, the names of my best friends from Before, and I forgot exactly how I knew the things I knew. I knew Cullen would change his mind on mages someday, though every time I spoke with him it seemed just as distant as the last, and I didn’t know why I was so certain that these things would happen, but I was very certain they would. And I had my journal, which I clung to, which reminded me what was to come, which held possible futures only I seemed to know.

The Hawkes rose up in the world. They reclaimed the old Amell estate. Somehow, Bodhan found us all again after the expedition, and pledged himself to the Hawkes’ collective service. It was nice to visit him sometimes. The only thing we had in common was the Blight, but at least he missed those friends, too, and knew who they were. Knew Shale and Wynne and Zevran and Sten the way that even Anders, who had so briefly been a Warden, didn’t.

Though I’d expected nothing of great note to happen, outside of perhaps a couple still-somehow-small things, I still found that the years leading up to 9:34 Dragon were almost routine, almost boring. If not for my letters to help me keep track of time, I may never have noticed. I even received a letter from Sten, and though it was about a year after my own to him, and said little of any consequence, I was delighted, because he was a friend, and he remembered me. He cared.

I visited Clan Sabrae occasionally. Mostly to see Edelweiss, as she was the only one consistently happy to see me, but I spoke with Feynriel, too, and with some of the hahrens. Mheganni warmed up to me little by little. When I saved her owl from becoming Tal-Vashoth dinner (and I didn’t want to know why they would eat an owl), she decided I wasn’t so bad, or something. She even came to visit Merrill, drawing stares from everyone in the Alienage, because there was never any denying that Mheganni was Dalish—she wore her heritage proudly, as any Keeper would want for those of their clan.

And I learned to take on the form of a mouse, mostly by accident. I spent so much time shooing the Darktown mice from the herbs Anders and I collected for our potions, that I started to learn how they moved. At first, this was purely so I could better reroute them away from things like elfroot, which we needed, or deathroot, which would kill them (and then kill anyone who tried to eat their corpses, because its poison was simply that potent). It evolved, as things tend to when there is little else to do and an endless supply of hungry mice, until eventually I decided to see if I could take their form, on a whim more than anything.

It probably wasn’t my smartest idea to do so while Ser Pounce-A-Lot was in hunting mode, but it was certainly a learning experience. And if I never told Meredith about this form… Well, it’s not like I expected it to have much use.

 

It was a late afternoon when Cullen himself showed up at the clinic. Anders had been dragged off by Garrett to help him fetch some herb or another along the Wounded Coast, so only Littlefoot and I were there, and I couldn’t help but feel immensely grateful we were alone. Justice was becoming more and more adamant in his rage at the Templars. I’d even been treated to a long speech myself.

It had been a slow day—it was late winter, and while the worst winter sicknesses had come and gone, the spring allergies and colds had yet to show their full force. Only a few people had come for aid today, and all were easily patched back up. Thus, only Littlefoot and I sat in the little clinic when Cullen arrived.

“Warden Vir’era,” Cullen said, nodding to me. We didn’t talk frequently, but we did speak enough that I knew this sort of greeting meant he was here on official business. He had made the trek down to the clinic a handful of times in the last few years, either with a letter from Mia or a request of me from the Templar Order (and not once for anything else). So far, it had never been much. Just rumors of darkspawn here and there which I’d been kindly asked to deal with, as a Grey Warden. If they knew Anders was a mage, it had gone ignored.

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” I returned. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” The elfroot potion I was stirring was almost done. We didn’t actually need any more elfroot potions, but the elfroot itself was at the edge of going bad, so I thought I’d use it while I had the chance. If nothing else, I could leave it at the Chantry. I might not particularly approve of or care for the Chantry and how it operated, but even they couldn’t do harm with elfroot potions. Probably. Hopefully?

“Take your time.” I heard Cullen move further into the clinic, and Littlefoot jumped up from lazing by the fire to greet him. He loved the Templar—loved most people, really. And Cullen never turned Littlefoot away, even sometimes bringing a small treat for the dog. It made me smile. Between that and the letters from Mia he sometimes brought (when she couldn’t send both separately), he actually seemed to treat me mostly like a person. It would have been a stark contrast from his words years ago if I wasn’t also aware that I was the only mage to receive such treatment.

(He was never harsh with other mages, and he never had been, but everything I heard depicted him as utterly indifferent to their suffering and success.)

Whether it was good or bad that he treated me differently, that he maybe saw me differently, I didn’t know. But I did know that Cullen was doing better than I had expected him to. It was hard to say how, hard to pin down what made him seem a calmer, steadier man than I had expected he would be (without Mia’s intervention), but he was, and I thanked the Creators for it.

He waited without comment as I finished the potion, though I saw him looking at me from the corner of my eyes. I decided not to draw attention to it, simply filling the empty vials I had and stoppering them. The clinic’s shelves were heavily laden with potions already, and I couldn’t find space for about half of this batch. I’d just have to take them to the Chantry.

Turning, I smiled at Cullen. He didn’t return it, but at least he wasn’t frowning at me. “What can I do for you today?” I asked. I hoped it wasn’t darkspawn again. It may be my duty to fight and destroy them wherever they were, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it.

He sighed lightly. “Knight-Commander Meredith wishes to speak with you in person,” he said, brows furrowed and lips tight. “From the sounds of it… this may take some time. You might want to put out the fire.”

My shoulders grew tense at his words, but I nodded and doused the flames with a simple spell. To his credit, Cullen no longer looked at me suspiciously when I used magic like it was second nature. He nodded once, a small jerk of his head, and motioned for me to follow him back to the Gallows.

“C’mon, Littlefoot. Let’s go.” My mabari tilted his head at me, but came obediently to my side. As I followed Cullen out, I picked Maleficent up from against a pillar and slipped her strap over my shoulder.

I didn’t lock the doors, and Cullen didn’t wait for me to. He had, the first time he’d come when Anders wasn’t there, but neither of us ever locked the doors. There was no point to it. Everything we had, we were willing to give freely—with the exception of our staves and armor, at least, and that we never left without. It wasn’t worth the effort to lock up. Sometimes it meant our stores got depleted faster than we wanted, but nothing was ever broken. Everyone knew. In some ways, it kept us safer. We had nothing to hide away, no reason to be harmed.

(Except, of course, for the fact that we were mages. But that’s different here, different in the dank and deep of Darktown.)

I never asked why the Knight-Commander consistently sent her Knight-Captain, her second-in-command, for a mission as ostensibly simple as fetching someone she wished to speak with. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer, was afraid that it was more a show of distrust and power than one of honor, as I had chosen to pretend. At least if I didn’t ask, I could tell Anders it was likely because I was a veteran of the Fifth Blight, or because I had met Cullen before and knew him, knew his sister. I could say that’s why she sent someone so important on a pageboy’s errand.

We walked in silence. It was comfortable—or, at least, it didn’t seem too terribly tense to me. Whether or not Cullen shared my opinion was an entirely different matter. He made no attempts at conversation, though, and so we were each left to our own thoughts as he led me to the Gallows.

Meredith met us in the courtyard. I almost went straight for her office, but when Cullen didn’t turn upon entry, I noticed her standing in the center, watching us. No expression showed on her face. She waited until we drew close to greet us. “Greetings, Warden.”

“And to you, Knight-Commander.” Neither of us bowed or saluted. Cullen did, though, a brief salute to his commanding officer, and he received a simple nod in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Knight-Captain. You may return to your duties.” I stood up straighter as Cullen left, one hand clenching to stop myself from reaching for my staff. While Cullen and I did not agree on how mages should be treated (like people, I thought—like weapons, he thought), I knew he would never allow undue harm to befall me. Meredith, however…

She was hard to read. Her face remained impassive in almost all of our interactions nowadays, and those were few enough. I never saw her in town, and I never ventured to the Gallows on my own outside of occasionally bringing her status reports in person. She had not accused me of consorting with demons since learning of my shapeshifting, but even so, she couldn’t possibly be pleased at my continued presence. And I knew she would easily take matters into her own hands if she deemed me too dangerous. If I became a liability.

So I had to play the good little Warden, had to smile and nod, say ‘yes ser’ and ‘no ser,’ and bend to any request she made of me. They’d been small so far, her little requests, her little power-plays. Nothing outside of what could be called my duty anyway. Barely more than reminders.

“Walk with me,” she said, and I obeyed. She set a leisurely pace, strolling into the portion of the Gallows reserved for the Templars. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she held herself with such command that she felt three times taller than she truly was. The men and women there didn’t even hesitate to step aside, all saluting (or, for those whose hands were full, nodding deeply) as we passed. No, as Meredith passed. I would never be granted such immense deference on my own.

No elf among shemlen would. Not even Theron, and he’d killed an Archdemon.

Meredith said nothing until we reached a smaller courtyard farther in. The Templars there did not pause at their Commander’s appearance, did not turn to salute; they were training, and apparently this required their full attention. Some sparred in pairs near the center. A few were jogging around the perimeter, laden down with weights of varying types (buckets of water, solid bricks, bags of what seemed like sand). Yet more Templars recited the Chant of Light as they performed other miscellaneous exercises.

“As you can see,” Meredith declared, bringing my attention back to her, “here in Kirkwall, our Templars take their training very seriously. We do not accept second-rate efforts. Our duty is holy, is vital to maintaining the balance.” She did not look at me, her eyes taking in each and every Templar in the room in turn. The few that met her gaze nodded, but did not pause. A small smile curled the corners of her lips, the first expression I’d seen her make in months.

I looked at them all. It wasn’t hard to see what she saw, to see the dedication and the loyalty. These brave souls truly did believe they were doing their Maker’s work. Whether they were or not… Well, it wasn’t really for me to say, I suppose. But I certainly disagreed with its necessity.

Because even as I could see the strength and bravery and unwavering faith that had brought them here, it was also so horribly easy for those same characteristics to become the very things which made them frightening. These were powerful people who would not hesitate to kill a mage that defied the Maker’s will. People who might even be thought of as zealots.

I carefully suppressed a shiver.

“We are very good at our job, Warden.” Meredith turned. She was looking at me now, but I did not face her. “I have not interfered with your little clinic in Darktown. I have been patient. But I know you are harboring an apostate who works with you. The human man.” My entire body tensed. Did she know more? Did she know that Anders was an abomination in the most basic sense of the word? “I would know why, Warden.”

“He is my responsibility,” I said. I refused to turn to her. I’d learned my lesson; if I wanted to keep my voice steady, I could not look until I’d built my confidence. Loghain’s presence had been smaller than hers, though. The presence of a worn, jaded man holding tight to his command—it paled in comparison to the presence of a strong woman so fervent in her beliefs. Like a street dog to a war hound.

“Explain.”

I longed to shift, to fidget, but I knew it would make me seem guilty. I did feel guilty, but I knew I was not—not in any way that mattered, not in the way she thought I was. It was—it was just my anxiety, which had been manageable the last few years, had even seemed to lessen. But I needed Meredith to believe that I was doing this for honorable reasons. Even if I wasn’t sure.

“He deserted the Grey Wardens.” It would not paint Anders in a nice light, but at least I knew how to play to my audience. Meredith demanded total loyalty. The Grey Wardens did not, because the connection to the Blight—the nightmares and the Calling—all that was meant to enforce such things. We could never be normal again. We were expected to find solace and understanding in our comrades. “I found him here, and I have… enlisted his help. A punishment of sorts, since he refuses to rejoin. He has great skill with healing.”

“I see.” Silence. She did not look away from me, and at last I pulled my eyes to meet hers. They were impenetrable. Her face gave away nothing. “Why did you not inform me sooner, Warden? Per our agreement when you entered this city, you were to report anything of note.”

“No,” I corrected, confident about this if nothing else, “I agreed to report to you on the duties which sent me here, and Anders was never one of those.” Her eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned.

“So it was.” She hadn’t expected me to remember that. But that was important. That was not the sort of thing one simply forgets. “I will… overlook this just once, Warden. In exchange for my generosity, I would enlist your help.”

She was blackmailing me. My lungs deflated, my stomach sinking like a rock to settle somewhere around my knees. I hadn’t realized she would stoop to such a thing. That she could even consider it. Was she not simply a pious woman driven mad? (Did she even have the idol piece yet? I wondered.) Numbly, I asked, “What would you ask of me?”

Her lips curled again into an almost-smile. “As you can see, Warden, when it comes to physical encounters, my Templars are second to none.” She gestured out at them, at those still running with their heavy burdens, those reciting the Chant of Light even as they did pushups or whatever else, those sparring with skill enough on each side that the matches all seemed to be leading to draws.

“But we are not here to fight the mundane,” she continued. “Even with our Maker-given powers, mages do not fight the way we are trained to. They are harder for us to predict, and thus a greater danger than I find comfortable. I see no way to solve this issue as we are. I cannot allow the mages in the Circle to learn to fight, lest they seek to reach beyond the place the Maker wills them.” Her eyes snapped back to me, and a chill slid down my back like ice-cold water. “But you are a Grey Warden. You are required to fight. And you must be good at it, or you would be dead.”

“I do what I can,” I said.

She smiled, showing her teeth for the first time, and the sight of them scraped my bones. “A humble reply. I would be so very grateful, Grey Warden, if you would be so kind as to share your expertise with my Templars. We must be prepared for anything which comes our way, after all, and while I will do everything in my power to ensure this knowledge never becomes necessary… I will also do whatever I must to be certain we are prepared if it does.”

It felt like my armor had shrunk. Like it was trying to suffocate me. This offer—this facsimile of a mutually beneficial trade—if I agreed, she and her Templars would only be that much more powerful, that much more difficult to stop when the inevitable occurred. When they called for the Annulment of the Circle. But if I refused—if I dared to say no, I had no way of being certain that Anders would be safe. That I would be safe. They’d—they’d do something, of that I held no doubt. Meredith had as much as promised that, three years ago, and again just now.

I could be made Tranquil. Incapable of magic, of emotion, of empathy or dreams or anything that made life worth living. Anders could be killed. They’d find out, I was all but certain. They’d know he was an abomination. His rage, Justice’s rage, would overwhelm him and he would not be able to hide his condition.

If I hadn’t come here—if I hadn’t opened my goddamned mouth—Anders would have been _safe_ , I knew that for a fact—I was the only reason they were paying so much attention to the clinic, the only reason they knew where he was and what he was doing, the only reason they knew that he was a mage.

But if I agreed, how many would die? How many would be unable to combat Templars taught to show no mercy to mages and armed with the knowledge of how to fight one? How many would I have to mourn because of my own idiocy, my own thoughtless actions? Anders would never forgive me. I may never forgive myself.

Perhaps it would have been safer to enter Kirkwall secretly. To never tell Meredith of my existence, to never notify her that I would be staying. Perhaps I should have deserted the Grey Wardens, too, and simply joined Anders on the run.

Meredith watched me. Whatever faces I made, whatever emotions I laid bare in my weakness and shock, she did not change her expression. She just waited, ever so patiently, the picture of what a Templar Knight-Commander should be.

Littlefoot, who had been sitting utterly silently at my side, panting despite the cool weather and lack of exertion, whined and pressed his nose against my fist. I hadn’t even realized I’d closed my hand, and I forced myself to let go as his cold, wet nose nudged it. My other hand, too. I took a deep breath and ran my hand over Littlefoot’s dirty, coarse fur.

“Of course, Knight-Commander,” I said, turning my body to face her and feeling completely out of my depth. Not for the first time, not by far, and I was certain it would not be the last time, either. I smiled with broken willpower. “It would be my pleasure.”


	12. kick his ass baby i got yo flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to get this chapter out & thank you muchly for your patience!! after this, it should be mostly easy-going and your regularly scheduled updates each friday. i've got just over half of ch 13 done, so i'm expecting to be able to post that as i normally would next week. bon voyage!

I did not tell Anders about my new duties. I couldn’t bear to see the face he’d make, couldn’t allow his anger to overrule his logic. It was impossible to say what he’d do, if I told him, and I refused to take the chance that he’d storm the Gallows himself. How I would hide it from him, I wasn’t sure. But I would have to. There was, simply, no other choice. Not yet.

I did tell Mia. Cullen would likely inform her of it anyhow—or, more accurately, she’d wring it from him some way or another—so there was really no reason to lie. I told no one else, though I did consider telling Malia and Garrett… But it was too risky. Garrett never lied to Anders, and while Malia might keep a secret, she was also fiercely loyal to her brother.

The agreement Meredith and I reached meant that I was expected to help train the Templars twice every week. It could have been more often, and I couldn’t be more grateful that she’d asked only for that much time. I’d train half the Templars on Tuesdays and then the other half on Thursdays. Exactly how I would explain my frequent absences to Anders, I wasn’t sure, but I hoped he wouldn’t ask. I didn’t ask about his, after all.

And he was absent, sometimes, without explanation. I knew he was helping mages to flee the Circle; since he never bothered with excuses, I think he was aware that I knew. But he never asked for my help, and I never offered it, thinking I would be too conspicuous.

Maybe I should have anyway.

 

My tactic for the first days of ‘training’ was simple: one-on-one duels. I fought each and every Templar, one after the other. If I were truthful, it was because I didn’t know what or how to teach them. Of course, I didn’t tell them that. I called it an assessment test, so that I would know the general strengths and weaknesses they had in fighting mages, and better prepare actual lessons.

They didn’t complain. Meredith, who did not involve herself directly, but did oversee it all, even nodded at my words.

“There will be rules, of course,” I said, projecting a false confidence and staring out into the small sea of faces that crowded the training yard, “and the rules might be different from your usual sparring match rules.

“The first is that, even though you are engaging in a fight with a mage—namely myself—you are not to use any of your Templar abilities.” Someone scoffed. I didn’t see who, because I wasn’t looking at any of their faces, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I ignored the sound and forged on. “This is an assessment. If you incapacitate my magic before I can see what you need to improve, I cannot help you.

“The second rule is that these fights will not end at first blood. They will only end when I cede or have you in a position for a killing blow. If you allow it, I can and will heal what injuries you sustain at my hand—and some of you will be injured.” Even if I didn’t like the set up, even if I hated that this was something I’d been forced to do, I took some small comfort in that. I had only gotten better at fighting in the last four years. I wasn’t in top physical form, mostly due to my limited diet in Darktown, but I could kill an ogre on my own.

“Third: These are one-on-one matches, but unless I specify it, there will be no breaks. When one duel has ended, I want the next contender ready to fight immediately. This will put me at a disadvantage eventually, but I will not truly be fighting alone. My mabari, Littlefoot, will fight with me.” I gestured at him, and he sat tall. I wished I had paint for a kaddis. It would’ve been nice. “Before you say this is unfair, remember: you will rarely fight a mage who has no help, but it is entirely likely that you will have no help. Blood mages will summon demons. Some apostates keep with groups. I know a man whose cat is nearly as fierce as any mabari.”

There was some mild chuckling. I let a little smile crack my façade, but kept my hands clenched behind my back so my audience could not see them shake.

“Are you ready, Templars?” I asked.

“Yes, ser!” The uniform and even respectful response surprised me. Doubtlessly some hadn’t answered in such a way, but that the majority did—it spoke well of them. Maybe they weren’t all that bad. Maybe there were more like Cullen-that-would-be. Like Thrask.

“Then let us begin.”

A makeshift ring was immediately formed around me, armor clanking and skirts swishing as the Templars rearranged themselves of their own accord. By the easy manner and speed with which it was done, this was something they had done before. I couldn’t help but wonder why.

Amongst themselves, they decided an order to fight. A small man faced me first, his helmet obscuring most of his face. He held himself with the same calmly assured air as the others, but his shield sagged a bit lower, and his sword was pulled slowly from its sheath. With a nod to me, he said, “Warden,” and began to attack.

I started simple. No glyphs he’d overlook and no spells beyond an average apprentice’s level. If anyone noticed this, they said nothing. I sent a bright blast of cold directly in the Templar’s path; he caught it on his shield, and it deflected down to the ground. The move almost surprised me, but I’d known that a Templar’s shield was made to do such things, and recovered quickly.

He reached me soon after, and lifted his sword high above his head. It was an easy dodge, and I think he’d intended it, but he had already forgotten I had a mabari. So while his attention was on me, watching how I moved and what spells I cast, Littlefoot had flanked him. Littlefoot sank his teeth into the Templar’s robed leg, drawing a surprised shout echoed by winces in our captive audience.

He wheeled around to attack Littlefoot, and I jabbed the blade of my staff up to hold against his throat. “You’re dead.”

A moment. He huffed and removed his helmet, revealing a balding head that I did not recognize. I brought my staff down. “Do you need healing?” The robes were thick, but Littlefoot’s teeth were sharp.

“No, ser,” said the Templar. He nodded at me and moved into the throng once again. A different Templar took his place in the makeshift arena, her sword already drawn. I knew little of sword fighting or proper form, but she matched what I did know to a T.

Where the first man had run at me immediately, she circled and made a deliberate effort to keep both myself and Littlefoot in sight. I wondered if, perhaps, it was unfair to fight with Littlefoot at my side, but there had been no complaints yet. (Then again, it was entirely possible that Meredith had said they were to simply follow my instructions. I doubted it, but it was still possible.)

Like before, I shot some basic cold in her direction—and like before, she caught it on her shield, deflecting it down to the ground. When she seemed disinclined to do much but wait for me to attack, I indulged her. Three quick bursts cast with showy movements, all caught on her shield—two hit the ground, but one went wide, catching a watching Templar instead. It wasn’t enough magic to hurt, thankfully, but he did let out quite the yelp.

“You’ve just killed a civilian,” I said.

She stopped her pacing and braced, and then she was charging at me. Unlike the first man, she did not hold her sword aloft, but kept it in what I interpreted as a ready position. I jumped to the side, hoping to catch her flank with some ice—no such luck. Her shield remained solidly aimed at me even as she rammed a knee into Littlefoot’s side.

He went down, more dramatically than strictly necessary, and scooted to the outer ring. She watched him only long enough to be certain he was no longer in the fight, then moved her eyes back to me. She was too late, though; while her attention had remained on Littlefoot, likely to compensate for the first Templar’s lack of attention on him, I had enough time to skirt around the bulk of her shield. A small-scale version of Winter’s Grasp had her locked in place.

“And now I have you. But at least you got the mabari, right?” I released the spell, and she gave me a terse nod. Littlefoot sprang up and trotted to my side, apparently no worse for wear. Healing him of possible minor bruising wasn’t worth the effort—not until it was actually causing problems.

Most of the fights went like those two. Gradually, the watching Templars learned and attempted to correct their predecessors’ mistakes, and in response, I added more complex techniques to combat them. By the tenth Templar, I could not rely on just the basic bursts from my staff. If it was purely applying what they learned from watching, then they were very smart indeed—but I thought they were likely building up to their strongest fighters, seeing just what I was capable of.

I didn’t lose to a single one. This was less the comment on my amazing fighting I would have perhaps liked it to be, and more a demonstration of how wholly unprepared the Templars were to fight magic without use of their own magic-canceling powers. I couldn’t help but hope that I would not improve this too much; the mages of the Circle were even less prepared to fight Templars.

The final Templar, when it was his turn, narrowed his eyes at me. I could only just make them out behind the mask of his helmet. “You’ve been holding back,” he accused, shoving his shield in my direction from across our makeshift arena. “I’ve been training since I was very young; I’ve watched the mages practicing their spells. You’ve not yet used anything more powerful than the apprentices can manage.”

An uneasy murmur drifted through the crowd. “Yes,” I answered, and tilted my head at him. It wasn’t an unusual tactic—of that, I was certain. I’d watched Sten do the same while helping to train Darrien. All the men and women gathered here had surely been taught similarly by whatever swordmasters they’d had.

“Are we truly so ill-prepared?” he asked.

I almost wanted to say yes. But not only would that be a lie, it would also cause fear and a surge of aggression for the mages in the Circle. So I did not. “No. I am a Grey Warden, as you know. I have fought in many battles, which is something very few mages in the Circles can claim. They would not know what weaknesses to look for; they might not even know your shields can be as deadly to them as your blade. I do not think you need this training, not with your skill and lyrium-granted abilities, but Knight-Commander Meredith does.”

“I see.” He stood still a moment, shield low at his side and sword hand empty. I could not see his face, but I imagined he was contemplating something. The air around us, which had felt charged with leftover magic and adrenaline from the fight, now held a different sort of weight, one I could not identify.

“Are you ready, Templar?” I asked.

He straightened himself and drew his sword. “I am,” he said. “Thank you, Warden.”

A rock wrapped around my heart, making every pulse painful. When the Templar stepped forward to swing his sword at me, it hit my staff with the same heavy force that hung suspended in the atmosphere. My hands slipped a few inches on the obsidian shaft, damp from sweat and jarred loose with shock.

 

Sweaty and nauseous after that last fight, even though I had beat the Templar, I could not stomach the thought of returning to the clinic. Little good awaited me there. Only questions and needy people and an ever-present smell of death. The bodies never stayed in Darktown, but their scent never left.

My feet wandered aimlessly from the docks. The cool air was nice; the bite let me concentrate on something other that whatever threat I’d created among the Templars at the Gallows. Littlefoot panted at my side, apparently unaffected by the duels. I had healed a few nicks and bruises, but mabari are sturdy creatures, and he didn’t seem to care much. His nails clicked on the stones as we meandered our way through the city to Hightown.

I had no business in Hightown, no potions to deliver or even any desire to call on what friends lived there. But I knew it was not what had brought me there. I’d found myself walking here before, when I dissociated.

I always seemed to end up at the Chantry.

The large wooden doors were before me already, winter light catching on the polished handles. It was a bit ironic, really, I thought as I opened the door and stepped inside. I hated much about the Chantry as an institution. I didn’t even particularly care for Kirkwall’s Chantry in terms of its priests and values. But it was always reverently quiet, lit only by the Holy Brazier and the many red candles scattered around. And someday it would be gone.

Maybe it was that, more than anything else, which drew me to this place. It would be gone soon. In three years, approximately. I knew this as fact: what little memories I held onto had visions of a bright red blast, of screams, of Anders and his terrible desperation—and my journal confirmed it, too.

It was hard to reconcile with the place before me.

I was not Andrastian. I worshipped the elvhen gods, the Creators, and had said as much when one of the Sisters tried to preach to me. “This place is simply peaceful,” I’d told her, “and I have so little peace in my life.”

Perhaps because I’d worn my Warden armor that day, she did not question it. She smiled, said something generic about how happy she was I could enjoy at least some of what the Chantry offered, and I had not been bothered since. Perhaps they were hoping I’d convert by osmosis or something similar.

I sat on a pew and stared up at the enormous statue of Andraste, which shadowed all else. She wore a crown similar to the headdress Meredith had, but her face was kinder. Had Andraste been kind in life? The Chant would suggest so. She seemed a good role model, really. It was a pity the Chantry did not take more after her.

The sun’s light had shifted from shining near the walls to dancing at Andraste’s feet when someone sat beside me. I did not look to see who it was; on occasion, someone from Darktown, or an elf, or even a guardsman would sit by me in silence for a while. Solidarity, I think. Because I lived in Darktown, or because I was an elf, or because I was a Warden.

“It’s not often I see a Dalish in a Chantry.” I blinked. I knew that voice—the accent was unmistakable—and turned to Sebastian. He smiled at me, a warm welcome. “I thought your people did not worship the Maker.”

“We don’t,” I said, a bit stunned. How did I know this man? I had not met him in my life, and yet I was certain of his name, and his too-blue eyes were so familiar. He was not mentioned in my journal, but I had realized that my journal left out many things I still knew, much as it had left out where I was from. (‘Not from Thedas,’ it said, but that was not much of an answer.)

“I see.” He tilted his head a little, and the light caught on his hair, making it shine like polished copper. It was entrancing. “If you don’t mind my asking, what else would bring you here?”

I met his gaze again and tried to keep from staring. Elgarnan’s tooth, but he was attractive! “It’s peaceful,” I heard myself say, and was amazed I managed that much, but the next words to come made me regret allowing my mouth such freedom. “I come when I am dissociating.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “Dissociating?” I saw his eyes flick to my staff, which leaned beside me against the pew.

“Yes.” How does one explain such a phenomenon to someone unfamiliar with the term? “Ah, it’s… I am no danger to anyone but myself. I… um, I-I become… distracted. Forgetful.” Why was I saying all this? And to Sebastian, of all people? I’d only just met him, and though I knew who he was, he had yet to say his name.

I had yet to say my own.

“The Sisters tell me you come here often,” he said, slowly.

“I suppose.”

“They say that you do not believe in the Maker, but you bring poultices and potions anyway,” he continued. “And they asked that I not preach to you, though I had no intent of it. If you are here, you have heard the Chant of Light. I can do little else.”

“The Sisters are smart,” I replied, clasping my hands in my lap. Littlefoot shifted slightly under my feet, but he was asleep, and did not awaken. “I am elvhen before I am anything else—before I am a mage, or a Grey Warden, or even just a man.”

“Then why donate to the Chantry? Do the elves and Wardens have no need of your potions?”

“Since joining the Wardens, I have had no clan, and in Kirkwall, I am the only Grey Warden. My commander is in Amaranthine, which is a bit far to send a batch of elfroot potions.” I let the corner of my lips turn up just slightly to let him in on the ‘joke,’ and his eyes squinted in amusement. It looked so very natural on his face. “But I run a clinic in Darktown, as the Sisters know, and sometimes I make more potions than I can keep there. I bring the extra here. That is all.”

He watched me with those blue-blue eyes as I spoke like he was trying to comprehend the entirety of my existence from this one exchange. I could admit I was hardly a common sort—elves are normal enough in cities, even in the Chantry, but the Dalish never stray into such a place; Grey Wardens are rare to see without a darkspawn threat; and mages in Kirkwall simply did not leave the Circle unchaperoned, if they left at all. For one person to be all these things at once… Well, even I knew it was entirely unusual.

“Are you Vir’era, then?” he asked, suddenly. “Malia and Garrett’s friend?”

I smiled fully for the first time, provoking an answering grin on his face. His face was awash in the gentle sunlight, and he looked like a fairytale. “I am,” I said.

“Then it is a pleasure to meet you.” He drew out the word pleasure ever so slightly, either for emphasis or sarcasm, and I found I didn’t care which. “I am Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven. I suspect we’ll be seeing each other a lot in the future.”

“It seems to go that way with the Hawkes.”

 

Because my life, apparently, did not have enough excitement yet for the universe to be satisfied, the very next day found Arianni and Mheganni both at the clinic, asking for my help. Neither looked particularly delighted to be there, but they came anyway.

“Please,” Arianni said, taking my hands in her own, “you’ve done so much for Feynriel already, and I do not want to ask more of you, but he trusts you.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, though I knew the idea already. Her words confirmed as much: Feynriel had gone into a nightmare days ago, according to Mheganni, and had yet to break free. The Keeper was coming to the Alienage to try and help save the boy, but they needed the help of someone he trusted. I was only surprised that I was the person being approached; though I had certainly visited him since taking him to the Dalish, I’d expected Malia or Garrett to be asked this duty. Not me.

Anders, never one to stand by while another mage suffered, followed us back to Arianni’s home. Mheganni gave him funny looks, but said little beyond adding that her owl, Revas, was watching Feynriel now. “The clan still does not trust him,” she explained, “even though it has been three years. I don’t think he would do anything to harm us, but I also do not think a hunter at his bedside would ease the situation. They know Revas to be loyal, and they trust me. He’s there to guard the clan from Feynriel, and Feynriel from the clan, if needed.”

I nodded gratefully. “Arianni, did you tell the Hawkes, too?” I asked.

“Yes. I sent a letter to them, because Feynriel said they have also visited him in the clan, but it is you he speaks of most often.” I was surprised at her words, and she smiled at me over her shoulder as she led us back to her home. “Not many can claim to have fought an Archdemon and lived, and even fewer would spare a second thought on someone like my boy.”

I wanted to argue—my Warden friends certainly would have cared (at least, mostly)—but there was no time for it. When we arrived in the Alienage, Malia and Garrett were both there, talking to Merrill with matching concerned expressions. After having traveled with Castor and Capella, who looked like reflections of each other, Malia and Garrett hardly looked anything alike—except when they were concerned. They scrunched their eyebrows in the same way, lips pulled downwards the same amount, the whole shebang.

“Arianni!” Malia called upon seeing our group. “You’ve called the whole town in, it seems.”

Arianni blushed a little. “N-no, not at all! Just Feynriel’s… Just the people who care about him.”

“We’re his friends,” Garrett said with a gentle smile. “You can call us as much. We don’t mind.”

Arianni glanced at each of us, but we all truly were there for Feynriel, and concerned about his wellbeing. She looked to Mheganni last, and when even the Dalish hunter nodded, a smile broke the concern on her face. “Thank the Creators that he has such kind people in his life.” Then, at Garrett’s polite prodding, she explained once more to the Hawkes and Merrill just what had happened with her son.

Several of the elves who lived in the Alienage stared openly at us. Certainly, we made quite the scene: four Dalish elves (of which two were mages) and three shemlen (of which two again were mages), plus a mabari. As Peaches brought Malia a pair of soiled trousers likely found in a trash bin, the scene became only more comical. Or, well, it would be, if our faces and the nature of our gathering were not so serious.

“The Keeper should be here soon,” Mheganni murmured. “She sent me ahead, but insisted on coming alone.” The idea obviously made her uneasy, and I couldn’t blame her. It was unsafe for elves in shemlen cities, and especially so for those unfamiliar with them.

We didn’t wait long. Soon, Marethari walked down the steps into the Alienage from Lowtown, her head held so high that she could not have looked more out of place. Every elf stared in wonder, though a few seemed more upset than delighted. The Keeper paused for just a moment at the vhenadahl with such a profound sadness that I could feel it even from where I stood outside Arianni’s home.

Arianni approached quietly and even bowed, though Marethari had asked for no such deference, before silently ushering us all into the small living space she kept. It was tidy inside, though this said less of Arianni’s housekeeping and more of how little she owned.

We stood crowded together as Marethari told us of Feynriel’s condition, how bad it had gotten, and that she knew a way—an ancient elven way—to save him, using this house, his childhood home, as an anchor. “Vir’era, if I may have a word in private,” she entreated.

“Of course, Keeper.” I followed her into the small hallway. It wasn’t really out of earshot if people did wish to listen in, but it was enough that they knew it would be unwelcome.

“Feynriel must not fall prey to a demon,” she said. “He is too powerful—an abomination with his power could destroy Kirkwall with just a thought.”

“I won’t let that happen,” I said.

“I fear you may not have much choice.” Her face aged a thousand years with those words; Feynriel may not have been Dalish, but she certainly cared for him nonetheless, and it was not easy for her to say these things to me. “Promise me you will do whatever you must to prevent it.”

“Keeper…” I couldn’t promise to kill him in the Fade. That’s what she wanted me to do, if I thought he was being possessed. It would render him Tranquil, and she was fully aware that I knew this. He’d be no danger Tranquil, but he would not be Feynriel, either. And if my journal was right—if my gut feeling could be trusted? He didn’t need to be killed. He was stronger than that. “I won’t do that if I can still save him.”

Her jaw clenched and her face tightened. “I see. Creators guide you, Vir’era. I pray that you will return safely.”

She didn’t completely believe I would. She hoped it, I could tell—she hoped it very much, or she would not have let me go, would not have let me try this as I wanted to do it. But she did not believe I could save Feynriel and myself. She believed he needed to be made Tranquil.

Perhaps another Dalish mage might agree. But I’d seen worse. I’d healed an abomination before, and befriended two. I knew the sky would open one day and rend the Veil; we would need people like Feynriel when that day came. The Somniari had amazing powers. I could not stand by and let them be wasted because he might be a danger if he were to become an abomination. No, Feynriel deserved a fair chance, and I was determined to give it to him.

“I’ve only the supplies and power to send four of you into the Fade,” Marethari said. “As he has developed a significant bond with both Vir’era and Mheganni, I suggest sending them, but I will allow you to choose who else will accompany you.”

“It sounds interesting,” Merrill chirped immediately. “I’d like to go, I think.”

Anders shifted. “I’m not sure… how it would go, with Justice.”

Malia put her hands up and took a couple steps back. “Count me out. I am not setting foot in the Fade. No way. Nuh-uh. No demons for me.”

Garrett shrugged. “I’ll go if you want me, Vir’era, but, well. Quite frankly, I get enough of the Fade in my dreams. I don’t know if I want it when I’m awake, too.”

Littlefoot sneezed, making his opinion well-known. He hadn’t enjoyed the Fade when we were forced there by the Sloth demon four years ago. I doubted he wanted a repeat experience, regardless of the intent behind going there this time.

Mheganni wrapped one arm around Merrill’s, obviously deciding for us. And since Merrill had specifically asked to come—I wasn’t certain I could deny her. And between Anders and Garrett… I knew I would rather take Anders. I was utterly certain that there would be no misdeeds on Justice’s part, and something niggled at me which said it was Justice who I would see there. I missed him, the real Justice. I had not seen him in far too long. He only came out when Anders was angry, and then he wanted only to lecture and rant.

“Anders, would you mind terribly?” I asked.

“Are you sure? I—I don’t know if it’s a good idea, you know. With Justice.” He spoke so quietly that only he and I could properly hear, but I was almost positive everyone was listening in.

“I think it’d be good for him. He cannot reach the Fade normally, and there he would be—he might be like he was, the way he used to be, for just a little while.” I gave a small smile, hoping it was encouraging.

Anders sighed very softly and twisted his face into interesting contortions for a long minute. “You really think so?” he asked, at last. “I mean, like, do you think so or—do you, you know, think so?”

Exactly which one was intended to be what implication, I wasn’t entirely sure. “I have a feeling,” I said, instead of trying to repeat whichever one he meant to be the implication that I knew more than I should. Which I did. And he knew, though we never talked about it.

He took a much deeper breath and let it out very slowly and a bit loudly this time. “If you’re sure,” he started, and I rolled my eyes, because, really, Anders? He smiled, and I hoped to all that was good that it meant he’d only been teasing me, and then he said, “Alright, I’ll go, too.”


	13. metal crash and thunder strike

Entering the Fade willingly was nothing like I expected. One moment, we had been laying on the floor in Arianni’s home, closing our eyes as if to sleep, and the next, all four of us were standing around in a compound I recognized all too well. “Where are we?” Merrill asked, eyes wide at the blank stone surrounding us.

“The Gallows.” The voice which answered her echoed faintly with such power that we all stood straighter for it. My heart lifted to hear it sound so calm, and I turned to face Anders. His eyes shone bright blue, and a shimmering gold outline of armor seemed to surround him. I smiled widely.

“Justice,” I said. His gaze fell to me. Merrill said something under her breath, and Mheganni nearly shouted in surprise, but there was kindness in Justice’s stare. A kindness I had not seen from him in years, one that made my throat tight. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“The same to you, Vir’era,” he replied, and then smiled. “It has been so long since I was last in the Fade. I forgot much of it. I thank you.”

“This is Anders’ spirit?” Merrill asked, looking between myself and Justice. “I—oh, I thought he was being figurative, really, when he said he was an abomination. Because of the Warden things.”

“He’s possessed?” Mheganni interrupted, aghast.

I shook my head. “No, not truly. Anders merged with a spirit of Justice years ago. The one you see now is Justice. He was unable to return to the Fade, and that is why…”

“A noble thought, at least,” Merrill said. Precisely what she thought of Anders’ decision, I couldn’t tell. Maybe she agreed, or would, if she were told the whole story, but we had no time for that. Mheganni pressed her lips together and glared at Justice, but offered no argument.

“We should save this boy.” Justice turned to the doors in front of us, which would lead further into the Gallows. “Already I sense three demons here, and more will come if we do not hurry.”

“You’re right,” I said, and we drew our weapons. I noticed for the first time, as I opened the doors, that Littlefoot was not with me. Not that I had expected him to be, but it was the first I’d been without him at my side in a very long time.

I wasn’t given long to contemplate the emptiness, because soon a demon was approaching us. “Do not trust it,” Justice warned, though I had no intent of dealing with a demon. Spirits, perhaps—but never demons.

The demon introduced itself as Torpor. “I will offer you a deal,” it said. “In exchange for my aid, I would ask only that I be given the boy. I am not strong enough to fight the demons already vying for him, but together…”

“No,” I answered. “Regardless of whatever you might offer, I cannot allow Feynriel to be possessed. Please, leave.” I had hoped to avoid an extra fight, but Torpor did not take well to being refused. It attacked, drawing upon shades to aid it, and we were forced to kill them all. I sighed after the needless fight, weary already. “Let’s just… save Feynriel.”

I wasted no time in leading my friends down a hallway chosen at random after that. The Fade made everything, as could be expected, somewhat hazy and dreamlike—shadows moved when they had no reason to, books flew, and barrels floated. We stuck close together. I could almost feel Mheganni’s breath on my neck for how close she kept, and it surprised me. Though she’d come to trust me more, and maybe even respect me, I still had the impression that she didn’t like me. She certainly didn’t like Anders.

The door I opened first seemed only to let me through, washing us with a golden light that obscured everything momentarily as I came to Feynriel’s dreaming mind. Or part of it, at least. My hand became pale and old, and when I looked up, I saw a crowd of unmistakably Dalish elves being addressed by what appeared to be Marethari, with Feynriel at her side.

“My people,” she said, gesturing grandly in a way I had never seen the Keeper do before, “I present to you our hope. His features may mark him as human, but in his heart beats the blood of the Dales! He came to us to learn his heritage, to release the power from a lineage as ancient as our race.”

Feynriel looked abashed, glancing at everything and lingering over nothing. “I—I don’t know what to say!”

“Say no,” I told him, and my voice was that of Orsino, lower than my usual and much flatter. “They would never trust you with such a thing, no matter how pure your intentions. You know this, Feynriel.”

“First Enchanter?” Feynriel asked, utterly stunned as he looked to me. I played along, knowing he needed to realize this to be a trick on his own. I was a mage, too, after all. I knew how these things worked. “W-what are you doing here? Mother told me the Dalish are honorable! Why would the Keeper lie?”

“Why indeed?” I tilted my head at him, unaccustomed to Orsino’s voice coming from my throat. “You are not Dalish, even if your mother was. You are a shemlen.”

“He lies,” not-Marethari accused. “You are one of us, Feynriel. Your magic will restore our greatness.”

“But…” Feynriel shifted to face not-Marethari fully, though he didn’t stay still. “You told me this magic was outlawed for a reason. Even the Dalish don’t practice it anymore.”

“Who would trust anyone with the power to shape reality?” I asked. “Moreover, what elf would trust you—can you even trust yourself?”

He turned wide eyes on me, but I knew he’d heard what I had to say. It was his turn, now.

“Don’t listen to him! The First Enchanter is trying to keep you from realizing your greatness!” But the fake Keeper’s words were too late, and she knew it. Feynriel took a few slow steps away from her.

“Trying to keep me from temptation,” he corrected. “Just like you were! You’re not the Keeper!” He pulled himself to his full height, which was almost impressive, and commanded, “Be gone, fiend!”

As she tried once more to pull him under her sway, he turned and ran, too fast for her to catch. She turned her attention to us, instead. “You!” she roared, transforming slowly from the visage of the Keeper into a hulking Pride demon. “Why did you interfere?”

Behind me, a small gust of wind announced the returned presence of Justice, Merrill, and Mheganni. “With my power joined to his,” the Pride demon continued, “Feynriel would have changed the world!”

“Too bad,” I said. “It would seem he did not want your help.”

An expression almost like a snarl warped the creature’s face. “Those who are free to choose always want more power! Do you think your friends are different?” He pointed to Merrill, who, curse her, came forward willingly. “You think this elf, with her innocent face, would turn down a demon’s offer? She didn’t before.”

He looked directly at her and offered a hand. “How ‘bout it? Would you take what I offered the boy: Scion of the Dalish, savior of elvenkind?”

“Can you… do that?” she asked, and I almost screamed.

“Merrill, please,” I said.

“I am the greatest of my kind!” the demon bragged. “Whatever tricks your little pet has taught you will pale in comparison.”

“What if he’s lying?” I implored, hoping she would understand, would think twice about this—because demons lie, and she knew that, perhaps better than anyone.

“What if he’s not?” she returned. “I’m sorry, Vir’era. I cannot put any one person’s needs ahead of those of all the People.”

“Merrill!” For the first time Mheganni spoke, but she was too late, and Merrill was in the thrall of the Pride demon. She reached out to her friend, but Merrill shook her off.

“Dread Wolf take you!” I saw Mheganni flinch away, and cast a barrier as quick as I could to spare her the brunt of whatever spell Merrill shot her way.

“Get back!” I called, already readying more magic. Pride demons, pride demons—what weaknesses did they have? Very few. The demon laughed loudly and aimed a whip of pure lightning my way, and I fell into the form of a cat to run aside.

Justice, perhaps as a result of his merge with Anders, began to use magic, concentrating on the demon and paying little mind to Merrill. I noticed a green tinge to his spells, and figured he must be using spirit magic, which was always Anders’ specialty, anyhow. If not for Anders’ anger and Justice’s intensity, the two might have had a peaceful merge, some distant part of me thought.

Mheganni screamed. When I looked over at her, she was desperately dodging Merrill’s attacks, but making no move to return the actions. I ran to her side and transformed back into an elf so that I could speak. Merrill didn’t let up on her casting, so though. I pulled just barely at the Fade to encourage the barriers I’d set, hoping they’d strengthen without attracting yet more demons.

“She’s in its thrall entirely, Mheganni,” I said. “We have to stop her.”

“How can you be so calm?” she demanded, ducking a stray spell. “Is she not your friend, too, Warden?”

“She is! But the only way to stop her now is to defeat her, and as we are in Feynriel’s mind, she will be safe!” I wasn’t sure why I was so confident in this, but I was. Mheganni cursed.

“If you are wrong, I will kill you myself.” Faster than I could track, even having traveled at Theron’s side during the Blight, Mheganni nocked an arrow and set it flying through Merrill’s head. It did not hit her the way it should have, did not send her head backwards or blood flying. It hit her, and she was gone. I took it for a good sign.

“Vir’era!” Justice shouted. “I do not have the strength to fight this one alone.”

Shaken from my reverie, I darted over to his side and became a dog. His spells were doing little against the demon; mine would be no better. I sprang at the demon, and it shouted at me. One of its hands came to try slapping me from the air before I could land, but a strong arrow kept it from its course.

My nails, longer and stronger than the average dog’s, only seemed to help keep me from flying off the creature when I hit it. But my teeth were sharp enough to tear at the stuff that passed for flesh, bringing screams like a thousand angry birds out of its mouth. I felt more than saw spirit energy slither against the wounds I created, sent by Justice, and heard the sound of arrows sinking deep above me.

I tore yet more of the oil-colored skin away, and my feet lost their purchase, sending me scrabbling down to the hard stone of the not-Gallows Feynriel had dreamed up. But I kept tight hold of the skin in my jaws, bringing a long strip of it with me, and into that bared place, Mheganni fired several arrows. Justice followed her volley with spells, and the Pride demon was no more.

We panted in the odd space for a moment afterwards, all staring at the demon. When it did not move, I let myself flop limply for a moment. “Damn it, Merrill,” I whispered to the air.

“You should have expected as much,” Justice said, looking down at me with those glowing all-blue eyes. “She consorts with demons often. Anders has seen it.”

“Don’t talk about her like that, elgar’alas!” Mheganni pointed her bow, empty though it was, at Justice. “Vir’nan ma ghilas!”

“This is what awaits all who work with demons,” he said, utterly unaffected by her anger.

“Venavis!” I shouted, hurrying to put myself between them. “You can fight later! Right now, we must still save Feynriel, and every second we waste arguing is another second closer to him becoming possessed, which we cannot allow!”

Mheganni snarled incomprehensibly but lowered her bow. Justice stared at her for a moment, inscrutable, and then nodded. “You are right.”

I glanced between them. They pointedly looked anywhere but each other, and I took a long, slow breath. “Ma serannas,” I said, and led them away from that room.

The Fade here seemed to guide us where we needed to be now, as if Feynriel knew there was someone here, trying to help. Maybe he did, subconsciously. If anything can truly be subconscious in the Fade, the world of dreams.

We entered another room, and were washed again in gold. I did not feel my body change, but knew it had, at least for Feynriel. He sat at a desk, his father—Vincento, the Antivan merchant who had abandoned Feynriel and Arianni—helping him with some studies. Math? Reading? I couldn’t see, and perhaps it didn’t matter.

“That’s it, Feynriel,” not-Vincento said. “Hard on the down stroke, then lift. Good! I’ll have you scribing all my letters soon. If I’d known you were such a bright lad, I’d have brought you into the business years ago.”

Feynriel looked so young, so much younger than he really was, and he stared up at this imposter with immense admiration. “Does that mean I can come with you to Antiva, Father?” he asked, leaning forward. “Mother said maybe this summer… Right, Mother?”

He looked at me, and I felt part of my heart break. Words came from my mouth like rote, though I did not know where I’d heard them. I knew only that they were the right ones. “Your father left years ago, Feynriel, before you were even born. I don’t trust him.”

Feynriel frowned and looked at not-Vincento. “Why are you lying to me?”

“Don’t listen to her, son,” not-Vincento said. “She’s always been ashamed of you. She wanted you gone so you could go back to the Dalish. I’m the one who loves you.”

“But… why can’t I remember you?”

“He wants something from you,” I told Feynriel. “Why else would he say these things?”

“Why…?” Feynriel stood up quickly, suddenly, and turned with shock to not-Vincento. “That’s right! I spent my whole childhood waiting for you!”

“Your mother never allowed—” the demon started, but Feynriel was having none of that, now.

“My mother loves me! She showed me the letters she wrote you. You never wrote back—and it was Mother who taught me to write, not you! I’ve never met you before…” Feynriel peered at the man in front of him, perhaps seeing through the disguise. “Who are you?”

“Don’t question me!” Even as the words came, not-Vincento was overtaken by a white light, and transformed into his true form—that of a Desire demon—breaking the entire illusion. Feynriel shouted and ran off.

“You!” the demon accused, pointing at me. It felt terribly similar to the Pride demon’s gesture. “You turned him against me!”

“Yes,” I answered, entirely simply.

“Take away my pets,” it said, “and I’ll take away yours. How loyal are these friends you drag into the Fade?” It passed its gaze over myself and Justice like water over glass, and settled instead on Mheganni. “The Dalish have none to trust but their own. Tell me, could you extend it to me, young hunter?”

Mheganni didn’t answer, so the demon continued. “I can fix it all, you know. I can bring your lost friend back to your side and convince the girl what she’s done wrong. Don’t you miss your soul-brother? The mage here took him away, too.”

I could do little but watch as Mheganni’s face crumpled painfully. She didn’t want to believe the demon—she had been taught how they trick people, just as everyone is taught. But some part of her did anyway. “I…” she started.

“And of course, we cannot forget your love,” the demon said. “Tamlen will be there, too, waiting beneath a tree. He has a gift for you.”

Mheganni’s breath hitched. The demon reached out and gently stroked her hair. “What do you say, emma lath?” Its voice changed with those words, to that of a young man, and though I had never heard Tamlen speak—I knew this was Tamlen’s voice.

“Dirthavara,” Mheganni whispered. “Ir abelas, Vir’era.” She drew her bow and shot an arrow at me almost before I could react.

Fighting Mheganni was not something I’d anticipated. I’d seen the fight with Merrill coming, had known it would be very difficult for her to say no to a demon in these surroundings, where it had advantage. But Mheganni? I had hoped she would not… That she was—not stronger, perhaps, because even the strongest would have trouble fighting a demon here, but perhaps I’d hoped she would go unnoticed.

It was a foolish wish. Mheganni had as much hurt as any of us. Maybe more than some. And since I was not the target, and Justice was a spirit himself, it made sense that if one demon would prey on Merrill, the other would prey on Mheganni.

It didn’t hurt less.

Justice recovered faster than I, which was hardly a surprise, and slammed the blade of Anders’ staff into the gut of the desire demon. Mheganni kept her attention on me, utterly unconcerned with Justice, despite her earlier vitriol for him. “You took them away!” she accused, and fired an arrow that went wide when it hit my shield. “You’re the reason they’re gone! All of them!”

She was right. At least, she was mostly right; I couldn’t remember what had happened in the Brecilian Forest, but I knew that the mirror which had deposited me there had corrupted myself and Theron irrevocably, and had turned Tamlen to a ghoul. However it had happened, it was likely my fault. I agreed with that much.

But still, demons would not help. Though I could not argue with her (and doubted she’d remember it even if I did), I could stop her here. I said nothing even as she continued shouting insults at me. Most were in Elvish. Some were threats. Her arrows hit my shield with greater force each time.

I cast a paralyzing glyph as she moved backwards to better her draw, and she was caught immediately. I may have overpowered the glyph, but that made little difference. Not wanting to waste time, or for Mheganni to regain movement and try again to hurt me, I rushed at her with the serpentine blade of my staff. It was almost like jousting, which I’d never done before. I managed to catch her. Like Merrill, she did not really react to the injury beyond dissipating immediately.

“Duck,” Justice commanded, and though I could not see why, I obeyed instinctively. Where my back had been, the Desire demon’s claws raked through the air. I sorted myself out enough to slam a very powerful fireball into it. Perhaps not my brightest idea, I realized, as the heat washed over me. Or, well, maybe a bright one—but certainly not a smart one.

As the Desire demon faded into nothingness, returning to the Fade the way anything of it always does eventually, Justice and I headed back out. Feynriel was waiting for us in the courtyard.

“I’m not sure if this is real,” he said, by way of greeting. “If so, it is the second time I owe you my life.” He turned at smiled at me, which I returned gladly. “The Fade feels different now! I see the stitches, the seams holding it together. I feel I could wake at any moment.”

“You are Somniari, Feynriel,” I said, “a Dreamer. You have the power to control the Fade and the dreams of those within it.”

He nodded, face slack with realization. “I see why the Chantry fears us. I’ve heard tales of Magisters who stalked their enemies and used their own dreams to destroy them! I… I must master it. Find someone to study under.”

“And the Dalish don’t have that.” He shook his head at my words.

“No, they don’t. Perhaps Tevinter… if these powers can be trained, it would be there.” He gazed into the distance, as though he could see Tevinter. Maybe he could. “My mother would not look kindly on such a journey. Can you—can you give her my farewell, Vir’era?”

“Of course. Dareth shiral, Feynriel. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

“Nor yours, Warden.” He gave me a small bow, perhaps out of thanks, and turned. “I can do this.” He waved his hand, and I had an impression, like an afterimage caused by lightning, of him walking away.

We woke up in Arianni’s little Alienage home. Anders wasn’t glowing, so whatever discussion happened between him and Justice upon our return to the waking world, he had control again. Mheganni sat in a corner, paler than I’d ever seen her. Merrill didn’t fare much better, but she at least was making polite conversation with Arianni—or, she had been, until Anders and I awoke.

“Vir’era!” Arianni said, almost jumping over to me. “Is he well? Did you—did you succeed?”

“He has realized his ability,” I told her. “We stopped the demons, but make no mistake: it is Feynriel who saved himself.”

She sobbed, clutching a hand to her heart. “Oh, ma serannas… Ma serannas, Vir’era. I cannot—there is nothing I can do to repay you as you deserve.” I gave her a hug, because she needed it, and she held tight to me for a moment before turning to the Keeper. “Keeper Marethari, may I return with you to the Sunderlands? I would like to ask my son’s forgiveness.”

Marethari smiled and put a hand on Arianni’s arm. “Of course. It was you who chose to stay away.”

“Before you go,” I interrupted, “know he plans to leave soon. He cannot train his powers among the Dalish, and no Circle will know how to help him. He… he asked me to say goodbye, Arianni.”

“My son? No!” Arianni stood quickly. “I must find him before he goes.”

“It is wise for him to seek guidance,” Marethari said. “Kirkwall cannot provide what he needs.” Arianni nodded, but quickly gathered her scant belongings anyway. Merrill and Mheganni began to help—even Garrett pitched in, talking amicably about it all.

Marethari pulled me aside. “I truly did not think what you did was possible,” she admitted. “You are a rare sort, even among the Dalish. Your friends awakened here some time ago. No one is immune to a demon’s offer, as I trust you know. But you accomplished a miracle with Feynriel. I have an offer for you, if you will take it.”

“What is it?” I asked. There was little she could offer, but even less that I would ever refuse. Still, it is always better to know what one is agreeing to first.

“Clan Sabrae is in need of a First. Theron wrote to me that your past is confusing, and that the Wardens believed you were my Second.” My face heated as she said the words, having never thought the lies would really come to light—not once the Blight was over and everyone who’d really listened to them was gone. She smiled at me. “If you are not opposed, I would name you my First.”

“But what about Merrill?” I couldn’t help it; despite her apparent betrayal in the Fade, I didn’t want to hurt her. And I knew she couldn’t have helped it there.

“She never wanted to be Keeper,” Marethari said. She sighed, a few regrets spilling into the air unbidden. “I do not think she would be upset, if you accepted. There will always be a place for her in the clan, if she wishes to return. She may even be relieved.”

“I…” I swallowed. This was much more than I had thought would be offered; I didn’t think I’d done much to deserve such an honor. But I would be a fool to say no—especially knowing that Marethari would likely die. I wanted to stop that, if I could, because she deserved so much better, but… Well, it’s always good to have a Plan B. “Yes, Keeper. I accept.”

“Ma serannas, da’len.” Marethari smiled wider then than I had ever seen her do. “You have put this old woman’s heart at peace many times over. You may continue to stay in the city; I know you have important business here, but I would appreciate if you came to the clan more often. Can you do this for me, my First?”

I felt as if I might cry, and I managed a large smile to match hers. “I can, Keeper. I will return to the clan soon. Dirthavara.”

“Ma serannas, Vir’era. I will be waiting.”

“Dareth shiral, Keeper.”

 

The crowd dispersed quickly after the Keeper and Arianni left. Malia and Garrett claimed to have a ‘date’ to keep (well, Malia claimed it, and Garrett sighed). Anders returned to the clinic with a significant stare in my direction—he’d want to talk later, but he knew I would need first to speak with Mheganni and Merrill. I nodded to him.

Merrill went across the street to her own home, but Mheganni stood outside. She looked like she couldn’t decide what to do, entirely lost. Her eyes focused on nothing. She hadn’t regained any color yet, either. Gently, I took her arm and led her to stand beneath the vhenadahl. Littlefoot stood guard, discouraging wayward stares. “Are you alright, lethallan?”

“Was she telling the truth?” Mheganni asked. She didn’t look at me. Her face was lifted up to the top of the tree; dappled sunlight touched her face, making the tears I could see in her eyes sparkle almost romantically. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t so sad. Perhaps it still was. “The demon. Could she…”

“No,” I answered, immediately. Then I pursed my lips and cast my eyes away. Even though she was not looking at me, and even though I was meant now to comfort her, I could not lie, and did not want to face her for this truth. “Yes. But not… not in any way that truly matters. Not in a way you would want.”

“Any way is better than now,” she whispered.

I did look up then, because my own discomfort was unimportant in the face of her desperation. “She would take your body,” I said. “Trap your mind in a dream wherein your wishes are granted, and then use your body as her own. You would be an abomination, Mheganni.”

A tear escaped and caught the light like a falling star. “I would have done anything. She—I knew it had to be a trick. I’ve heard the stories. Never trust a demon, right? But… but I couldn’t say no, when she asked.”

“Most people wouldn’t be able to.” I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. “We were vulnerable there, in the Fade. You, especially. You have no training for how to deal with a demon. You likely have never been so close to one, so exposed to its influence—and they do influence you, long before you consent to it.”

She looked at me, more tears falling. “Even if I knew how, I do not know that I would have refused. I… Tamlen—I never got to say goodbye. That is a wound which has yet to heal.”

“Oh, lethallan…” I wrapped my arms around her, and she willingly came to me, putting her face against my shoulder. “Hearts do not heal as skin and bones. If I knew the secrets, I would gladly tell of them now. But you have made it this far. One demon will not end you now.”

She cried onto my shoulder a while longer. Soon, though, she calmed, and pulled back to wipe her face. “Ir abelas, Vir’era.”

“You did no wrong, lethallan.” I reached up to tuck some stray hair behind her ear.

“All the same.” She gave me a small smile, and though it was sad, it showed her strength. She would be fine. With a small sniff, she glanced at the sky and the sun’s position. “Ma serannas. I must begin the journey back now. I… I will not forget this, lethallin.”

It was not the first time she’d used the word for me (that had been when I saved Revas from the Tal-Vashoth), but it felt almost more important nonetheless. “Dareth shiral. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

“Nor yours.” And she left.

I watched her go until she reached the steps leading into the Alienage. She’d made this journey many times before, and I knew she would be safe. Reassured now, knowing she did not hate me for taking her there, that she did not blame me for stopping her after the demon, I turned next to Merrill’s home. She would need comfort, too, if of a different sort.

I knocked, but knowing she may not wish for visitors, also said, “Merrill? It’s Vir’era.” Hopefully she would see me, if no one else.

The door opened, and her big green eyes looked at me so sadly, but she let me in without question. “Ir abelas, lethallin,” she murmured. She met my eyes, though. “I…”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders. She continued to pout at me. “It isn’t.”

“Of all people, I know the dangers. I know you can’t trust a demon’s word. But—I did. And I let you down.”

“You didn’t,” I insisted. “Very few could have resisted a demon in your position. I don’t know that even I could have. Everyone has something they want so dearly they will pay any price for it. You know this. The demons do, too, and that is why it could trick you today.”

“But I knew I should have said no,” she said. Her hands wrapped around my own. “Lethallin, there is no excuse for what I did. I endangered us all.”

I pulled her in for a hug, much as I had with Mheganni. “You are no saint. To expect to be would do your efforts discredit. You are a stronger fighter than what we saw there. Had you been trying, really trying… We both know you could have won, with a Pride demon at your side.”

She sighed. “It was still foolish.”

“Everyone makes foolish mistakes sometimes.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“I’ll always help you. I need you to know that.”

“I do. Ma serannas, lethallin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _elgar'alas_ \- lit. dirt-spirit. intended to be basically an insult (const. by me)  
>  _vir'nan ma ghilas!_ \- the path of vengeance guides you! (const. by me)  
>  _venavis_ \- command, seems to mean 'stop'  
>  _ma serannas_ \- thank you  
>  _emma lath_ \- my love  
>  _dirthavara_ \- i promise (constr. by me)  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i'm sorry  
>  _da'len_ \- little one, a generic  & kind (generally not seen as demeaning) diminutive along the lines of 'son/kiddo'  
>  _dareth shiral_ \- safe journey, a farewell  
>  _lethallan/lethallin_ \- like da'len, but for people of similar age and/or social status  & used almost exclusively by dalish elves for dalish elves (lethallan=feminine; lethallin=masculine)
> 
> \--
> 
> so... vee is now actually the First to Clan Sabrae, instead of play-acting as Second. if youve questions or concerns.... well, lemme know. & if you think it's terribly out of character for marethari, tell me that, too. she's a hard one to get a grip on.


	14. vir'nan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else see the mention of how dorian'll be in da4??? hot damn i am excited. #tevinterconfirmed

When I returned to the clinic, Anders was waiting for me. Usually, even if no one needed our attention, he would busy himself somehow—making potions or attempting some sort of meal with whatever was edible and available or writing his manifesto. (He never seemed finished with it, and never seemed to copy it, either.) But that day, he simply sat on a cot, petting Ser Pounce-a-Lot, waiting.

“I’m back,” I said as I entered, mostly for lack of anything else to say. He wanted to talk about something—about what had happened in the Fade, I thought, but I couldn’t tell what specifically.

He turned to face me, eyebrows drawn and a light frown on his lips. I sat on a cot across from him, and Littlefoot settled down at my feet. Anders said nothing for a long, almost torturous moment.

“I don’t speak Elvish,” he told me, as if this was news.

“You’re a human,” I answered, agreeing.

“Mheganni, she…” He paused and stared over my shoulder for a moment. I waited, utterly unsure where this conversation was going. Mheganni had spoken Elvish in the Fade, had insulted Justice while herself and had insulted me while in the thrall of the Desire demon, but normally Anders didn’t care much to know what was being said in Elvish. He certainly never asked Merrill or me.

When he looked back at me, he started entirely differently. “In the Fade, I couldn’t take control back. I didn’t want to, either. It was like, for the first time… Justice was himself again,” he said. He smiled a little, a very sad smile. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” I said.

“But I could still… I knew what was happening. I mean, I always do, but usually I don’t really realize what it all means until after. This time, I did,” he explained. “And… I understood what Mheganni said. What you said. When you two spoke Elvish. Or maybe Justice did, but because he knew, I did.”

“Oh,” I said. “ _Oh_. I…” I hadn’t expected that, yet I found it entirely unsurprising. Why should a spirit, mortal host or no, be limited to the common tongue? Words are not truly necessary in the Fade; all mages know this.

“I’m not concerned that I understood, not really,” he said. “Spirits don’t follow the same rules as people do. It—it was a surprise, but it makes sense. And Elvish is older than common, anyway.” He sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “What… what I’m concerned about… Mheganni said—sorry, I’m not going to butcher your language by trying to repeat it—she said that the path of vengeance guides me.”

He looked at me, staring into my eyes, and I, not knowing how to respond, just nodded. He pursed his lips, shifting on the cot. Ser Pounce-a-Lot whined, upset that his perch was being disturbed, but Anders did not apologize, the way he often did. “Why?”

I swallowed.

“Vir’era…”

“Do you remember,” I began, eyes down on Littlefoot’s fur, “what I told you a few years ago? About the things I know?”

It was the first either of us had brought it up since the conversation itself. If I were honest, some of that conversation was fuzzy to me, remembered like looking through old, warped glass. But I remembered enough of it to know that Anders was entirely aware that I knew things I should not. I brought my eyes back up to him. He was frowning at me still, perhaps more intensely now. He nodded.

“Your anger…” Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that sometimes things needed saying. Even if they weren’t precisely kind. “You and Justice—you can’t live harmoniously the way you hoped. I… I wish I could help. I don’t—I don’t know how, don’t think I can. Maybe…” I huffed, tugged on my hair. As with many things I knew, I’d spent time thinking on this quite often in the last three years. “I have some ideas. For separating you.”

He recoiled. “Wh-what? You can’t be serious!”

“Please!” I didn’t reach out to him, unsure that my touch would be welcome, but I longed to hold his hands that he might know how serious I was. “Please, listen to me, I swear I mean no harm to either of you. You _know_ me. I have tried nothing because I know of nothing that will work. Not yet.”

(There were possibilities. Combinations of spells and rituals, things which would take massive effort and intense concentration, things I could not do now if I wanted to, things I was uncertain would work, but wished to try, because anything would be better than to allow my friends to destroy each other.)

Anders pursed his lips, his frown turned to a glare, but allowed me to continue. “You can feel it already, that Justice is changing. Don’t lie to me, Anders. You and I both know he is not as he was, and that it is because he… because you joined with him that it happened. He is no longer entirely a spirit of Justice as he should be. Mheganni—I have told her nothing, will never give details I have no right to, but she knows he is changed from his path.

“The Dalish… treat all creatures of the Fade as being of one kind. Spirits are just as dangerous as demons, when treated wrong—can be turned into demons. I worry for you, Anders. Justice is no small spirit, is not a wisp that can be shown easily to what you want him to do. He is one of the strongest spirits there is, and that makes him very dangerous—makes _you_ dangerous, since you are one. You know this. You can feel him changing.

“I know he is… He is on the verge of becoming vengeance, as Mheganni accused.” Anders had hunched over as I spoke, almost curling over Ser Pounce-a-Lot, hands still in the cat’s matted fur. He said nothing. I think he knew I was right. “I would like to help you, as much as I can, if you will let me.”

“How?” he asked. His voice cracked. “When I made the spell that combined us, I made it so we could never be separated. Maybe if I die, but I don’t want to die. I—I can’t die. Not yet.”

Then I did reach out to him, grabbing his bony hands with my own. Both our knuckles turned white as we gripped each other tightly. “I will not let you die. Dirthavara, Anders. You and Justice are both my friends, perhaps even my greatest friends, for I have stayed by your side longest, and I will not see harm come to you. _Either_ of you.”

He took a long, rattling breath. “You make it sound like something beyond the Hawkes’ adventures might do me in.” I think perhaps he intended for it to be a lighthearted observation, a little joke to brighten the mood. But I knew what he would do (a bright red flash, burning anger, a city destroyed in his wake), and I could not smile. Neither did he.

“I will save you from yourself if I must.” I needed only to figure out how.

 

The next day, I went to the Gallows and tested the rest of the Templars, and things went very much like the first time. I gave much the same speech, was received with much the same general respect, and fought in much the same manner. Similar mistakes were made, though they were compensated for differently by the Templars who followed them. It was unremarkable until the end.

When I had tested all the Templars in the courtyard, I was prepared to stop. I nodded to the woman I’d just fought and signaled Littlefoot to allow her to stand. He came to my side with his tongue lolling, and I crouched to heal the small wound he’d sustained from her blade while she gathered herself and returned to her place in the crowd. I gave Littlefoot a kiss atop his head, thinking we were done, and stood to try at some sort of formal dismissal of sorts, but found Cullen standing ready across the cleared arena.

My surprise must have shown, because he said, “I may be Knight-Captain, but I have no greater talent fighting magic than any of the men and women here. If you are not opposed, I would participate in your lessons, as well.”

“O-of course,” I replied, then thought it could be misunderstood, and clarified, “I’d be happy to.” Which was mostly a lie, but weren’t all formalities? Shemlen used them so easily.

“My thanks.” He nodded to me. “When you are ready, Warden.”

I had to take a very deep breath to steady myself. I doubted I ever would be ready to raise my staff against Cullen, knowing what I did of how he’d come to Kirkwall, but he had asked for this. So, with white-knuckled hands, I entered a ready position of my own, and nodded. For the first time, there were no sounds in the courtyard from the Templars watching. Even the air held unnaturally still, like everyone was holding their breath.

We circled each other, each unwilling to make the first move. Littlefoot edged slowly in front of me. His growl was loud against the quiet surrounding us. Then, Cullen moved forward smoothly, shield in hand before himself. Littlefoot rushed him, moving low to the ground—we’d figured early on that the downward angle of a Templar’s shield could be used to rip the shield from their grasp if hit low like that.

But Cullen had seen us make use of that tactic, and he was a smart man. He braced, and even as I followed up to try and grab at the top of the shield to aid Littlefoot, I doubted we’d succeed. We didn’t, of course. Cullen hadn’t become Knight-Captain solely for his experiences at Kinloch Hold.

He adjusted the angle at which he held his shield at the last second, ramming the pointed bottom into Littlefoot’s shoulder. Littlefoot yelped and was pushed off to the side, where he stayed, counting himself as down for the count. It was the fastest he’d been downed. I moved as quickly as I could, pulling back the hand that had started to reach for the shield in favor of ducking to the other side with my staff at the ready.

Cullen’s sword was waiting for me there, and it hit Maleficent’s shaft with a loud clamor of ringing metal. My eyes widened, arms jarred by the shock, and I only just backed away from a follow-up shield bash. I nearly lost my balance as I skittered out of arm’s reach, and had to twirl to keep steady. This was more than enough time with my eyes off Cullen for him to hunker down and prepare to rush me again.

I pulled up a wall of ice, having still yet to make use of glyphs, but Cullen broke right through it. It did buy me a second, though, and I shouted as he shattered the ice, sending a short flurry of icy bursts his way. One caught his sword, covering it in icicles. Not enough to stop its use, but maybe enough to slow it. Most hit his shield and rebounded to the ground, in perfect Templar form. Some, perhaps two or three, did catch his robes, freezing him to the ground, but I didn’t trust that to keep him trapped long.

While he kicked and bashed the ice away, I calculated my options. Close-range combat was out of the question; it had barely worked against those Templars unprepared to face a mage with fighting knowledge, and would certainly fail against Cullen without Littlefoot as backup. Most magic, and especially that which I’d used against the others, would do little to faze him, but I could probably keep going until one of us grew tired and ceded.

Given that I was already panting and sweaty from a day’s worth of duels, I doubted he would tire first.

So it was, perhaps, time to bring out the more complex magic. The things most wouldn’t notice unless they knew what to look for. I cast a stronger shield about myself, the first I’d done more than a basic one. I would take no chances.

But this consideration had been more than enough time for Cullen to break free, and I was forced into movement again, lest I wanted to be caught on his sword. I twirled my staff, hoping the effect would be distracting, and cast a small paralyzing glyph in Cullen’s path. A few watching Templars whispered to each other; at least one had noticed the glyph.

Cullen walked right through it.

For a moment, I was shocked. Long enough that Cullen was able to make his first true swing at me. I met his blade with my staff, slightly more prepared this time for the reverberations to echo in my bones, and shouted in his face. He shouted right back, formless sound meant simply to intimidate. Frankly, he was better at it.

I used my leverage and shorter height to throw him off and followed with a quick fireball, little more than light and show, so I could back up. He backed off as well, and once again we faced each other from across the courtyard. My chest heaved. I couldn’t see his move below that bright Templar armor, but his mouth was open and his breath fogged in the late winter air.

Shouting again, I sent another series of cold spells in his direction. He covered himself with his shield and actually moved forward against them. He was determined. Strong. I was neither. He was winning, and the Templars knew it. They murmured and muttered to themselves, words I didn’t even try to understand as I faced down Cullen’s approach.

I placed Maleficent upright in front of me, her blade’s tip held just above the stones we stood upon, and cast a series of increasingly powerful paralyzing glyphs in front of Cullen. He walked through the first as if he hadn’t noticed it. Through the second like it was but a mild wind. Through the third like he was shrugging off nothing more than a curtain in his way. The fourth nearly had him, I thought; he moved so slowly through it, as though he may have finally been caught.

But he powered through until the fifth. Only then did I catch him, and even then it felt like an impressive victory—for him or for myself, I was unsure. He’d lasted the longest, had required the most complex tactics to defeat. Certainly he was a worthy Knight-Captain, I thought, with no small disdain.

He would be so much better someday. I hated to see him like this, knowing how he would grow, knowing he could live a better life free of hate.

I stepped forward. “I have you.”

“So you do,” he answered.

I released the glyph. He relaxed, sheathed his sword, and nodded to me. No words were said for a very long moment, but I could not fail to address this to my ‘students.’ I looked out at them, hardly seeing any faces. “Knight-Captain Cullen has demonstrated today more than simple prowess in battle. I may have won, but only because I used spells more advanced than I had used on any of you. Paralyzing glyphs are a danger to anyone facing a mage, and all too often go entirely unnoticed by their victims. Very few can manage to break so many the way your Knight-Captain did.”

Facing him again, I met his eyes. “He has amazing mental fortitude. Better even than many mages.”

There was silence after my words, followed by whispers. “Dismissed,” I said, and left the Gallows.

 

I walked to the Chantry again. This time was a bit more deliberate than before, but still, most of my walking was done on automatic. Littlefoot pressed against my legs, though Hightown was not particularly crowded at this time.

Before I went in, though, my name was called. “Warden Vir’era! Warden Vir’era!” I turned to the sound and saw Cynthia. She’d visited the clinic a few times since I healed her arm three years ago, sometimes for illnesses or injuries (her trust in me, at least, grew enough to ask innocent questions of magic), and sometimes to help. It wasn’t unusual—there were several residents of Darktown who helped where they could (offering small amounts of deathroot or deep mushrooms, offering to help us clean things or care for the patients during the sickest times of year).

“Cynthia,” I said. “Hello. How are you and your father?”

She smiled widely at me. “He’s all better! He went back to work today. He says that Serah Hawke said he could stay more if he needed to, but he wanted to be working ‘cause he feels better doing that.”

“Good. Are you here alone?” I asked, knowing that her mother had died in the Blight and that her father might be working until sunset. She was ten already, but ten is still young.

“Yeah. Grand Cleric Elthina said I can stay at the Chantry and practice my letters with the Sisters when Papa’s at work. She’s very nice,” Cynthia said, eyes large and honest. Though I found the Grand Cleric frustrating in her unwillingness to choose sides on any subject (except that of straightforward sins, which she denounced), I did not hold nearly so much anger as Anders. I was glad that she would offer a safe place for Cynthia to stay.

“That’s wonderful.” With another large grin, she turned to give some attention to Littlefoot, who had been waiting patiently for the scratches he knew he’d receive. Once she did start giving them, he returned the favor with kisses that made Cynthia giggle. She’d stopped being afraid of him at some point. I couldn’t pinpoint when.

“Were you going to the Chantry?” she asked. I nodded. “Do you sing the Chant of Light? Papa said you don’t have to be a Brother or Sister to sing it.”

I shook my head, making sure to look her in the eye. It was easy, because I was short even for an elf, and so we were about the same height—actually, she was probably a bit taller than me. “No. I’m not Andrastian. It’s lovely, though.”

She frowned, her hands pausing on Littlefoot’s head. “You mean you don’t believe in the Maker? I thought everyone except those Qunari did.”

“My people, the Dalish, have our own gods,” I said. “I worship them. Perhaps the Maker still exists, but He has done little for my people.”

“But Andraste freed the slaves,” Cynthia argued. “She fought Tevinter and made them let the elves be free.”

“She was a very brave woman, and I do not doubt that. And perhaps the Maker did move her to action. I do not worship the Maker, Cynthia, but that does not mean He does not exist, just as you not worshipping my gods does not mean they do not exist.” I smiled, hoping she understood. She was a smart girl, and old enough that such a conversation should not be too confusing.

“I guess,” she said. She didn’t ask about my gods, and frowned down at the ground until Littlefoot, upset at her despondency, attacked her face with kisses. She laughed, all forgiven for now, and resumed petting him. A thoughtful look crossed her face, and she looked at me with the undeniable spark of hope children get so easily. “Will you sing for me, Warden? Please?”

I blinked, surprised. She’d asked before, sometimes, when she was helping at the clinic. I’d even taught her the ‘Healing Incantation’ I’d sung the first time we’d met. She seemed to believe it really was magic, and liked to sing it to sick or scared children who came to the clinic. “What would you like to hear?”

“The song you sang to the elf girl that one time,” she said immediately. “About the voice.”

She had listened so intently when I sang it. I wasn’t entirely surprised that she wanted to hear it—a bit, though, because it was a song I generally sang for elves, not for shemlen. It was simply… more appropriate, for elves. Most shems wouldn’t take kindly to me singing it to them. But I couldn’t deny such a sweet request, so I just smiled and began to sing. “ _I hear your voice on the wind, and I hear you call out my name. Listen, my child, listen to me. I am the voice of your history…_ ”

Standing as we were near the steps of the Chantry, my song did not go unnoticed. I tried to ignore the stares, singing for Cynthia as she’d asked, and she seemed so happy to hear it, but I was certain that the Chanter standing by her board was entirely displeased with the song’s lyrics, especially sung by an elf. The Chantry-goers seemed uncertain, too—or, at least, I imaged as much, for I could not see most of them. I kept my gaze on Cynthia and Littlefoot.

“ _I am the voice of the past that will always be; I am the voice of your hunger and pain. I am the voice of the future—I am the voice._ ” As I repeated that last phrase a few more times to finish the song, Cynthia gave a happy little sigh and hugged Littlefoot.

“Thank you, Warden Vir’era. I have to go now. Good-bye!” she said to me, and after another sweet smile, she skipped up the stairs and into the Chantry, a waiting Sister following behind. I watched her go, gathering up my courage. I had wanted to visit, but after singing… Well, now I wasn’t so sure.

“That was a beautiful song.” My heart skipped a terrified beat, and I jumped as I spun to confront the person who’d spoken to me. I didn’t calm much when I saw it was Sebastian, though perhaps my nervousness simply changed to a different sort. “Is it a Dalish song?”

“U-um,” I stuttered, then coughed. Littlefoot snorted at me, and I pointedly ignored his unwanted comment. “No, um, I… I don’t think so.”

Eyebrows raised, Sebastian tilted his head at me. “You don’t know?”

I coughed again. “I, um, I don’t really… remember where I learned it.”

He hummed. “I see. Well, I suppose that does happen. I wonder, do you know any of the songs I do? Perhaps we could sing a duet.”

My face became very hot, and I knew I had to be blushing quite fiercely. At the same time, I couldn’t simply turn down a perfect offer like that (especially not with Littlefoot watching, certain he knew what was happening), so I managed a smile. “If we know the same song, I-I don’t see why not.”

“I’m sure Varric would find it endlessly amusing if we don’t share at least one song,” Sebastian said. His smile was like music in and of itself, and though that thought made little sense literally speaking, it somehow fit perfectly in my mind. “Tell me some of the songs you know, hm? I think that will be easier, as you likely can separate the ones I’m more likely to know more easily than I could figure which ones you may know.”

A wise decision. I’d learned a few songs from Leliana, back during the Blight, and those were the ones Sebastian may know. Anything else was highly unlikely, I thought. (Or, well, perhaps simply ‘unlikely,’ as Leliana _had_ known a version of the Twa Sisters.) “There is a song I was taught by a bard,” I began. “I think she said it was called ‘The Witch of the Westmoreland’?”

“Ah, a common bard’s song,” Sebastian said. “I know it, though I will need to brush up on it. I propose we sing the next time we see each other. What say you, Vir’era?”

Somehow, of all the shemlen I knew, Sebastian managed to say my name closest to how it was intended to be spoken. I couldn’t help but find this surprising and delightful, relishing in the fact every time he said my name. “Will you be at the Hanged Man tomorrow night?” I asked. “Varric likes to host games of Wicked Grace on Fridays. I’ve never been good, but I enjoy the company.”

“And we could perform for our friends!” He smiled brightly at me. “Yes, that sounds a wonderful idea. I will practice tonight, then, and see you tomorrow, at the Hanged Man.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” I smiled and waved as Sebastian retreated back to the Chantry. Now I definitely could not go in, but I was feeling better than I had when first I walked this way, and decided it was not such a terrible matter to return to Darktown.

I must have had a star-struck look upon my face, for Anders gave me quite the amused look when I arrived at the clinic, but he asked no questions, and I gave no answers.

 

As fate would have it, the next day was a terribly busy one.

About halfway through the morning, when what feeble sunlight filters into Darktown was finally filling the clinic enough to put out our magelights, Malia and Garrett came down all a-grumble, Aveline and Fenris in tow. “Apparently,” Malia said, “the Arishok has asked for me and my brother by name, or so says the Viscount. And since Fenris speaks Qunlat, Aveline is Guard-Captain, and you, Vir’era, have worked with a Qunari before, I figured there would be no one better to accompany us.”

“Ah,” I answered, and finished stirring the deathroot into the antidote I was making. “I guess I can’t really refuse. Sten did say he’d mentioned me to the Arishok in one of his letters, and claimed he spoke well of me. He called me basalit-an, at least, which is certainly a compliment.”

“Truly?” Fenris asked, and I nodded. “Impressive. I did not know even a mage could earn such a right.”

I shrugged. “Neither did I. Bas saarebas, and all that.” Fenris smirked a little at my words. We had a better relationship than he and Anders or he and Merrill. The only mage I knew him to get on particularly well with was Garrett. I liked to think myself a close second.

“You’ve just added the deathroot, right?” Anders said, nudging me from the stool in front of the cauldron. “I can take over from here. I think Malia wants to get this over with fast.” He gave her an amused look, but she just shrugged.

“It’s true. The sooner this is done, the sooner—well, the sooner I can do more fun things,” she said. “And I’m hoping that between our translator, our Guard-Captain, and our—what did you say you were, Vee?”

“Basalit-an.”

“Right, that. Between these three and the weird respect the Arishok seems to have for me and Garrett—”

“Mostly me,” Garrett interrupted.

“—mostly Garrett, sure, whatever, I’m hoping we’ll be all set for a quick in-and-out, thanks for the conversation type deal.”

“And I’m not sure anything can be so simple with them,” Aveline said, crossing her arms, “but you all know what it’s like trying to convince Malia of anything.”

Garrett and Anders both laughed. Fenris did a little chuckle while Malia shrugged, obviously not caring, and I just shook my head. “I’ll wake Littlefoot, then.”

Not that he really needed waking; as soon as he’d heard familiar voices, Littlefoot was half-awake and simply waiting to be called for. He jumped up when I said his name and all but ran over to join us, eager for whatever adventure awaited today. Malia laughed and said something about wishing she didn’t rely so much on Peaches to protect Leandra even now.

The words struck a chord in me, and I wondered if I should warn them about the white lilies again. But everyone was leaving, walking out and chatting about something mundane, and I hadn’t heard more on the subject in quite some time. Perhaps it would be okay if I let it rest just a while longer.

Hopefully, I would not regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dirthavara_ \- i promise
> 
>  _basalit-an_ \- respected outsider [to the qun]  
>  _bas saarebas_ \- mage outside the qun
> 
>  
> 
> [the voice](https://youtu.be/nX2anEXG0eE)


	15. the terrible chapter that had to happen to set up things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is terrible and i'm sorry but it also is necessary so..........................

Standing before the Arishok, I did not feel as small as I had feared. He was tall—easily two feet taller than I was, probably more—and had horns larger than my arms, but he was… The word escaped me. Certainly not approachable, but still nowhere near so intimidating as Meredith Stannard. Perhaps it was because his rage, his motivations were all so clear, so understandable to me, where Meredith was (or would be) truly mad.

He stared us down as we stood in front of him, meeting our eyes each individually. “Serahs Garrett and Malia Hawke,” he said, after meeting the siblings’ gazes. “The last time we met, I did not know your names. I did not care to.” His eyes continued, and Fenris nodded deferentially to him at his turn. The Arishok made no outward acknowledgement of the gesture, but the air weighed less.

When he saw me, he moved his entire head to look at me, rather than just his eyes as he had done with the others. “A Grey Warden,” he said. “I have been told the Grey Wardens are honorable. One of my men, a Sten, fought with your kind during the Fifth Blight. I wonder if you are also basalit-an.”

“Shanedan, Arishok,” I said, using the word Sten had suggested if ever I came into contact with the Arishok whilst we both stayed in Kirkwall. “I am one of the Grey Wardens of the Fifth Blight, and I knew Sten well. He is an admirable fighter.”

“Tell me your name, Warden,” the Arishok commanded, leaning forward.

“Vir’era.”

He sat back, considering me. “The aqun-athlok saarebas.”

I felt myself tense, the way one only does when it is unexpected and comes on suddenly. He knew I was aqun-athlok, and though I did not think any among my friends but perhaps Fenris knew what that meant, I was nervous about what it could mean. But I saw no reactions beyond Malia’s standard confused muttering (“What did he just call Vir’era, Fenris?”), and figured I would be safe.

“That is me.” I nodded deeply, hoping it would be seen as respectful, the way I intended it.

“Then you are basalit-an, and you, Serahs Hawke, keep good company.” Garrett smiled at the compliment, though even from where I stood barely looking at him I knew it was strained. (I couldn’t see it, but I was certain he was digging some part of his body into Malia’s to keep her quiet.) “You have changed your family’s fortunes in the last years. The Qunari have not.”

The Arishok began to speak at length of all the things he hated most about Kirkwall. Garrett made polite comments back, asking only once why the Qunari had not left, and receiving the expected answer. Or, well, the answer I had expected: they were stuck here to pay for the Arishok’s mistake. The same one that had Isabela avoiding the docks as much as she could, though the others hadn’t noticed the trend as much as I.

(Of course, since much of her avoiding of the docks was also related to her oddly-implemented courtship of Merrill, resulting in yet more time spent in Lowtown, I don’t know that anyone at all suspected a thing.)

At some point, though I honestly lost track of when, the Arishok gave us the reason why he’d summoned the Hawkes, and we began the hunt for Javaris Tintop. To make an unnecessarily complicated story short, we found Javaris, Garrett killed him (and I wasn’t sure he needed to die, but had no reason to spare his life), and we all but ran to find the elf he’d mentioned with the poison gas.

We found her, thankfully.

But not before she’d managed to plant her devices. It was a mad scramble to get them all closed, and we were hounded the whole time by goons and innocents alike driven insane by the gas. We tried not to kill. Or, at least, I did. There was no need to kill here. Still, it was hard, and I think we failed more than once.

The gas stung my eyes and burned my nose, collecting like a solid coating inside my lungs. I shoved a sleeve over my mouth and nose, but still it came through, as untouchable and insidious as the very hatred which brought it to that alley. Littlefoot moved slower and slower; though I could see Garrett covering his own nose similarly to me, our other friends did not have such a luxury. Aveline managed at least to pull her bandana up around her face, but Malia and Fenris needed both hands for their weapons and had no spare cloth.

I worked hard to distract any who approached them. Aveline shouted and banged her sword upon her shield, easily keeping eyes more focused on her than on Malia, but Fenris, with his greatsword and white hair and lyrium markings glowing from the ambient magic, was harder to overlook.

In the end, we succeeded. The elven fanatic was killed, and though I felt great pity for her, for the fear that had caused this terrible tragedy, I could not hate her death or see it as anything but necessary.

After leaving the streets, the poison slowly settling down upon the ground with the canisters carefully clogged, we spent a good ten minutes coughing and hacking up the stuff. I healed what I could for each of us. The external wounds were easier by far, because I could see them and knew what to do. I might know what lungs looked like, what they were supposed to be, but healing had never come as naturally to me as it did to Anders.

I did manage to prevent too much buildup, even so. Or, well, I hoped I did. Anders would need to check us all over in greater detail later, which Fenris grumbled about, but there would be no immediate consequences. Malia kissed Fenris’ hand to silence his ire about turning to Anders for help, and he flushed healthily enough. I was too glad about that to really register that he was blushing at Malia’s actions, though it was no secret that the two had been dancing around each other for the last three years.

 

The Arishok, as expected, felt no need to take any blame, and simply grew angrier yet about the ‘cesspool’ he found Kirkwall to be. Garrett tried to be calm, tried to suggest that it was an opportunity to make a real difference, because this is where one could do the most good, but the Arishok simply brushed the idea off like so much dust.

I swore I felt it clog my throat and sting my eyes, the second thing in as many hours to cause such a reaction. I had no great problem with the Qunari—I found the Qun generally disagreeable and oppressive, but very few Qunari were combative, and most seemed satisfied with their lot in life. Except, notably, the Tal-Vashoth… It was a complex issue, like magic, like the Circles and the Chantry, like Templars and Tranquil, like anything and everything seemed to be.

If only I could change his mind—but nothing would. I was certain of this. And, even if somehow there was something that could change it, I would not be the one to do it. Not even if I put my all into trying. Basalit-an I had been called, but bas I still was, and saarebas to boot. My words would mean little.

We all followed Garrett as he made his report to the Viscount, visibly disturbed by what we all could sense building up. To make it worse?

“A Qunari delegate left my office and disappeared,” said Dumar, and then Seneschal Bran asked us to find them. Asked Garrett, really, but now that we were here, and knowing time, again, was of the essence… He nodded and assented, and we piled on out.

To be frank, what happened was little more than what was expected, and much like with Javaris and the elf girl, none of it was particularly worth mentioning. From the Hanged Man we went to the Chantry, and Mother Petrice was coerced into leading us to the part of Darktown where her errant Templar bodyguard (and since when did Mothers and Sisters need bodyguards anyway?) had kidnapped the Qunari delegates.

We fought Templar and fanatic alike; the deceitful Mother used the chaos to slip away, and some of the fanatics took advantage of it to kill the Qunari. I tried to heal them in time, but I was too late, too far across the dingy hideout, unable to see well enough to help.

When we left, we split up. Malia and Garrett, both looking generally displeased with the situation, went to fetch the Viscount. Aveline had guard duties. Fenris claimed to desire a bath. I likely needed one myself, but I needed more to return to the clinic.

I had promised the Keeper, I realized on the way, that I would return to the clan soon. I needed to; if I was to be their First, I needed to be there as much as I could possibly be. What that meant for my work at the clinic, I didn’t know. And I would have to be back in Kirkwall on Tuesdays and Thursdays anyway, so that I could fulfill my duties to the Templars.

And that thought made my throat close up. I stopped short at a corner in Darktown, breath hitching. My eyes watered again, as though they had not already done so enough for one day. I reached out a hand to the wall, bracing myself. Littlefoot whined, winding around my feet with his head low.

I wanted to reassure him, say I was fine, but I couldn’t speak. I’d never been a good liar, anyway. I remembered Capella saying as much, so many years ago, on the road to stop the Blight.

I’d only had two ‘lessons’ with the Templars, but already I was hating it. I hadn’t expected to like it, but I had hoped… Creators, I was so stupid.

 

Anders found me, a while later, curled tightly as a cat, with Littlefoot standing cautious guard. Ser Pounce-a-Lot, following at my friend’s heel, came up and head-butted me. I was exhausted. “Vir’era?” Anders asked, crouching down.

I blinked at him. Littlefoot whined and nudged at me. Before I could collect my thoughts more, Anders reached down and picked me up. “If you don’t want to turn back, that’s fine,” he said, not looking at me. “But I’m taking you to the Hanged Man anyway.”

He had used the same voice he sometimes pulled out when talking with a particularly stubborn patient—the ones who needed magic but refused it, most often. I didn’t reply—not that I could, in this form, but I let him carry me and simply settled in. If nothing else, being around the others in such a familiar place should help. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough, but I wouldn’t know until I’d tried.

No one mentioned it when Anders sat down at Varric’s table with me in his arms and Pounce on his shoulders. Littlefoot jumped up onto the bench to watch, as he always did, and Fenris gave him a scratch. Anders made his rounds checking the health of those who’d gone out and done ‘stupid things,’ setting me and Pounce both on the bench in his place. I caught everyone giving me concerned looks, but ignored them.

Until Sebastian arrived, anyway. He came in late, but this seemed expected. “Sebastian!” Malia greeted, lifting her tankard. “I guess the Chantry doesn’t mind drinking as long as it’s with friends, right?”

Garrett groaned, but Sebastian just chuckled good-naturedly. I couldn’t help watching him closely as he went to sit beside Fenris, Littlefoot shuffling aside to give him room. It’s only because I was watching that I caught him frown at Littlefoot and glance around. “Is Vir’era here?” he asked. “I see his hound, but do not see him.”

Anders, possibly just to see the look on Sebastian’s face, lifted me up. “He’s right here.”

Sebastian gave such an unimpressed stare. “I’m serious, Anders. He said he would be here. We made plans to sing for you all.”

“Well, I’m serious, too,” Anders countered, and though I couldn’t see his face, I was certain he was pouting. He sighed. “This really is Vir’era. He’s just… not feeling great right now, that’s all.”

When no one else offered some kind of argument against Anders’ words, Sebastian narrowed his eyes at me. “But that’s a cat. Last I checked, Vir’era was an elf.”

Anders grumbled a bit, and Varric took pity on him. “Blondie’s telling the truth. Our friendly local Dalish Grey Warden just happens to turn into a cat sometimes. Isn’t that right, Mittens?”

Taking the cue, I meowed. Sebastian made another face, like he wasn’t entirely convinced, and suddenly everyone was trying to reassure him that I really was me. 

“I hate to agree with the mage, but his words are true. The cat is Vir’era.” Fenris.

“Can’t you tell? Look at him! He’s so pretty as a cat, just like when he’s not. I wish I could turn into a pretty cat.” Merrill.

“Oh, Kitten… Well, you do have a point. Look at the eyes. They’re the same, aren’t they? Elves always have such pretty eyes. Cats, too.” Isabela.

“Don’t you think Littlefoot would be with him if he weren’t here? Mabari are very loyal.” Aveline.

“No, that’s definitely Vir’era. You know, I first met him in that form, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if he’s not secretly a cat that turns into an elf.” Garrett.

“You too? Glad it’s not just me.” Varric.

“Okay, so we may have forgotten to mention that Vee can shapeshift, but I think we’d know by now if Anders had collected a new cat. It’d have some other ridiculous name, like Prince Cuddlesworth.” Malia.

“Excuse me, Prince Cuddlesworth is a _terrible name_. Obviously, it’d have to be Prince Cuddlington.” Anders.

“Right. Sorry, I’m not usually great at making up ridiculous names for things.” Malia.

“That’s a lie. Should I tell them about that one time with the farmer?” Garrett.

“Shut up.” Malia.

“You’re going to tell me later.” Varric.

“Garrett isn’t telling anyone anything, or I’ll tell about his first crush.” Malia.

“Alright, I get the message. Anyway, Sebastian, I promise you we’re not lying. But if Vir’era wants to stay as a cat,” Garrett said, and these next words were definitely aimed at me, not anyone else, “then we have no problem with that.”

Malia giggled. “You rhymed.” Garrett rolled his eyes.

At long last, Sebastian shook his head and sat down. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to believe you, then.” Varric poured him a drink, Isabela shuffled the deck, Malia _re_ -shuffled the deck, and then Garrett dealt out the cards to everyone except me for a game of Wicked Grace to start the evening. It rarely lasted long, and occasionally went unfinished as anecdotes and chatter took over, causing cards to go flying or hands to be seen by the whole table.

But it was fun, and that’s what really mattered. I enjoyed watching far more than playing (it had been years, and I’d won only one game, and even that was by the skin of my teeth). Thankfully, when playing with everyone like this, at the very start, there was generally no betting beyond general bragging rights.

Eventually, among the amiable bickering and flirting and general ridiculousness that was this group, I grew hungry. There was food on the table; Varric always made sure of that, and always not-so-subtly put it closest to where Anders and I had made a habit of sitting. We never said anything of it, but we did eat it. Not all of it, because it was food to share with everyone, but enough that Varric wouldn’t glare at us and shove it closer. (Which had happened before. Varric wasn’t good at pretending not to be a mother hen. Between trying to feed us and paying to keep the coterie off Merrill’s back… Well, he couldn’t fool anyone.)

So I let myself poof back into an elf (or, I figured it was a poofing—I’d never seen myself transform, nor had I asked anyone how it happened), and reached for some food. Sebastian, apparently only mildly believing everyone’s previous assurances, jumped up and pressed a hand to his chest when he saw my hand.

“Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed, then looked at me. I snatched up a roll and shoved it in my mouth to avoid speaking, but I could see from the corner of my eye that he was glancing around to see if there was still a cat other than Ser Pounce-a-Lot somewhere.

“Don’t just stand there,” Varric said, grinning at Sebastian. He waved the man back into a sitting position. “Pour him a drink! He’s almost as short as I am. The carafe’s definitely too far for him to reach.”

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him, but only because my mouth was full. He knew it, too, judging by the way he smirked in my direction. “You want in on the next round, Mittens?” he asked, waving his cards vaguely. Sebastian let out a little sighing laugh and poured me a cup of ale.

I swallowed my food and shook my head. “Not if my life depended on it.” Okay, probably then, but no one ever used such phrases literally anyway. “But I would like some of the butter, if you don’t mind.” It was sitting between Varric and Isabela, and if the carafe that had been sitting between Sebastian and Fenris was too far, the butter certainly was.

The butter was passed, the card game finished (Isabela won—fairly, too!), and Malia’s story of the day’s adventures told. With, of course, gratuitous help from Varric, despite the fact that he wasn’t there, and the enlistment of Fenris and Garrett to help her reenact things. She made it sound far more interesting than it was, and somehow also managed to be less ominous as Mother Petrice than the woman herself.

As the laughter died down, Sebastian turned to me, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he said, voice quiet enough that it was obvious he was talking only to me, “but you did promise me a duet. I’d very much like to sing with you, if you’re still willing to make good on that. Of course, if you don’t want to, there will be no hard feelings.”

But how could I say no to such a request? I smiled at him, hoping it wasn’t obvious that my heart had clenched when he looked me in the eye. “I did promise,” I answered.

Oh, his smile! It all but lit up the room on its own, his teeth somehow nearly as picture-perfect as his eyes, and I knew I was staring, but couldn’t make myself stop. Creators, this was certainly a problem, and Varric definitely would have noticed (he saw everything). I could only hope he’d keep his talkative mouth shut.

“Wonderful!” Sebastian said. He turned to the table at large, politely clearing his throat in an attempt to get attention. It didn’t work, of course, because Malia was determined to flirt a blush out of Fenris (and he, it seemed, was trying the same with her), and Garrett was mediating a budding argument between Anders and Aveline (it was a terrible idea for them to sit across from each other), and Merrill was so enamored with whatever story Isabela was telling her that she forgot the rest of them were there (not unusual). “Ah, excuse me? If I may…”

He continued to go ignored. Varric snickered, obviously intent on simply watching how things unfolded without his interference. Plus, he seemed to really enjoy just listening to everyone’s conversations. It’s probably how he got so much of his information—and half his story ideas. I doubted I could get attention any better than Sebastian, but I knew Littlefoot could.

So I turned to my mabari and nudged him. He blinked up at me, turning away from the large bone Varric had given him some time earlier. “Speak,” I said.

He barked. Loudly. Which, for a mabari, is really very loud. For a moment, all the noise in the entirety of the Hanged Man seemed to stop, like they were all wary of whatever creature had decided to crawl in and try eating them. Probably something that had happened before, considering Kirkwall’s terrible luck.

Everyone at Varric’s table was still staring at me and Littlefoot when the noises downstairs began to return, if quieter than before. Sebastian laughed. “Well, that’s one way of doing it.” I gave him a small, quick smile, and listened as he addressed everyone else. “Now that we’ve everyone’s attention, Vir’era and I would like to sing something for you.”

“You know, Choir Boy, the nickname was supposed to be a joke,” Varric said, one eyebrow raised even as he settled in with his head in one hand. “It’s not as fun if you can actually sing.”

Sebastian just flashed him a winning smile. Isabela and Merrill both scooted forward, almost as one. “I don’t know about you,” Isabela said, “but I’m _more_ than willing to listen to those two singing.”

“Oh, me too!” Merrill chimed, all but bouncing in her seat. “I just love it when Vir’era sings.”

“What song did you choose?” Malia asked. “Is it a happy one? Those are usually boring, but sad ones are just sad.”

“It’s called ‘The Witch of the Westmoreland,’” Sebastian told her, “and you’ll just have to listen to see if you think it’s happy. I don’t think it’s sad, though.”

“Sounds good to me.” Garrett waved his tankard in the air. “What’re you waiting for? Sing!”

We both nodded, and Sebastian hummed a tone. I matched it, and then he set the meter, and we began to sing. “ _Pale was the wounded knight that bore the rowan shield…_ ”

It wasn’t a sad song. Not really one I’d call happy, either, but it was a song, and it was a story. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. Sebastian’s voice harmonized well with my own. He had a bit of a lower pitch (not unusual; one of the few men I knew with a higher voice than mine was Anders), and his tone was smooth and clear. I couldn’t help but admire the sound, almost entranced by it.

“ _There’s none can harm the knight who’s lain with the Witch of the Westmoreland_ ,” we sang, and the song was done.

 

Really, I should have seen it coming. There had been whispered rumors among the miners who visited the clinic of blood mages on the Wounded Coast. Not something particularly unusual, especially with the presence of raiders and Tal-Vashoth never seeming to die down. But I, in my infinite wisdom, ignored the warnings. Let it be known that what happened was my fault. Let it be known I will never forgive myself. I shouldn’t have been there alone.

I didn’t think myself alone at the time, though. Saturday dawned, and I left the clinic. I’d promised to go visit the clan what felt like ages ago, and needed to make good on it. If Littlefoot and I walked fast, we could make it by late afternoon. It helped that some of the clan hunters had shown us quicker routes between trees off the road.

We’d made the trip before, just Littlefoot and I. We were rarely bothered; I always wore my Grey Warden armor, and few wanted to quarrel with a mage in these times. We’d had trouble only a few times, and only by the truly desperate. Even the Tal-Vashoth left us well enough alone. It made me presumptuous. I was far from invincible, and I knew that, but I’d begun to think myself invisible to most. I was neither prey nor threat to majority of the denizens of the Wounded Coast.

I should have figured that a cabal of blood mages would be different. Like in so many other things, blood mages are ever the exception.

The walk started nicely enough. It was a cloudy day, with a warm breeze hinting at the spring to come. So much had happened in the last week that it was nice to have a significant portion of time dedicated solely to myself, and I allowed my thoughts to wander aimlessly.

The trek was easy. Or, well, it wasn’t as hard as some may have expected, when climbing a large mountain called Sundermount from a generally dangerous place called the Wounded Coast. Littlefoot never strayed far from me, but sometimes a nug or a fennec fox would catch his attention, and he would chase it briefly. He never caught them, but I don’t think he was really trying.

I talked to him some. Not a lot, because it’s hard to climb up while talking (even when in the best shape, it takes a lot of lung capacity to do both, and I was not in the best shape), but some. I asked him if he liked it better here, out in the open with the trees and the animals. “It might be better, you know, if you stay out here with the clan,” I mused.

He barked at me, which I took to be, “But what about you?”

“Oh, I’d be fine,” I said. “I have Anders and Ser Pounce-a-Lot at the clinic, and all the others scattered over Kirkwall. Plus, you’d definitely get more food here. And better food. Actual meals, even.”

Littlefoot whined, pressing up against my legs, and I smiled fondly down at him. He would never leave me, his body language said. Good food or no, he belonged at my side. That’s what it meant to bond with a mabari, and though I was Dalish, I felt that I completely understood the Fereldan tendency to be utterly enamored with the beasts.

It still felt wrong, on some levels, to ask him to stay. That’s why I offered. I was the First of the clan now—surely they wouldn’t deny letting my mabari stay with them. But he had refused before I even could ask, and I loved him too much to force it on him. Or maybe I needed him too much; it could be argued that if I really loved him, I would make him stay where he could eat well regardless of his feelings.

So I couldn’t be blamed, I was told later, for not paying mind to the woods around me. I’d been safe in them before, and even Littlefoot did not become alert, and he was often my early warning system. But it was still my fault. My friendship with Merrill and my own experiences with magic as a whole had made me forget just what most blood mages in southern Thedas were like.

Because Merrill was a blood mage, and didn’t understand most of what she was experimenting with, but she was kind above all else, and was trying only to do something good for our people. She turned to blood magic to restore a piece of our broken past, and had never used it beyond what she was certain she could control.

(The way she’d reacted in Feynriel’s dream was something I thought of as an exception to the rule; in any other circumstances, I doubted she would put us in such danger, would be so gullible to a random Pride demon.)

And all the other blood mages I’d interacted with had been weak. Or maybe they just seemed such; Jowan certainly had not been strong, magically or otherwise. I’d never faced Uldred myself, but all the underlings we encountered back in Kinloch Hold had been far too easy to stop or kill.

Even Tarohne, who had managed to place demons into the mind of at least one Templar (and likely more, from the way she’d been so self-congratulatory before we killed her), had been little challenge.

So, I was told later, I could really be forgiven for my mistake. It wasn’t my fault.

I still thought them liars.

Cullen would have believed me. He would have called me an idiot, I think—or at least been entirely unimpressed with me—for going where I knew there were blood mages. Especially for going alone. With Malia and Garrett and maybe Fenris or Aveline, it would have been easy. Probably.

If it were darkspawn, I would have sensed them, and though it had been years since I fought darkspawn regularly, they were also the only creatures I’d remained on constant watch for. There were Deep Roads entrances littered around the Wounded Coast, after all.

But it was blood mages, and I had become lax. Stupid, maybe.

We were halfway to the clan. I’d paused in chatting to Littlefoot because this part of the climb was a bit steeper. He’d gone off after a chipmunk, and I looked away from the ground to watch him, not wanting him to fall down some unseen crevice or into one of the hunters’ traps. They didn’t usually trap down this far, but in the winter, sometimes game was thin enough that such a trek was worth the effort.

I should have kept looking at my own feet and the ground in front of me.

As it was, I was too late to stop things when I stepped into the glyph. It glowed when I entered it, and I had just enough time to look down in surprise and recognize it before I was out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the witch of the westmoreland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60rdggPCk_E)


	16. let your heart guide you. it whispers, so listen closely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things:
> 
> 1) This Chapter Has Torture. let this be your warning. feel free to skim or skip as needed; i will not hold it against you. tags will be updated to reflect this as soon as i've uploaded. that said, it's not _terribly_ gruesome or anything, but it is there, and should be noted.
> 
> 2) This Chapter Has Death, Too. as in, like, a non-canon non-enemy death. it is not a da2 main character, but it is an important death, so I'm sorry for that.
> 
> 3) anyone who recognizes where the title of this chapter is from gets major kudos from me, because even i had to google to find it.

I woke up to a blast of ice magic, jolting me violently, coldly, shivering back into the world. I gasped, loud in the silent surroundings, and tried to figure out where I was, tried to figure out what had happened. There wasn’t much to go off of—generic, dimly-lit blank walls of stone; a few wooden crates that were _definitely_ stolen, judging by the general situation; the same damp-sand-fish smell that permeated all of the Wounded Coast; and the hanging silence of a group holding their breaths collectively to see what would happen.

The Wounded Coast, I figured, in one of the caves, though this was hardly any help and plainly obvious. Almost certainly within five miles of where I’d been caught, because I recognized, as I continued to look around, a few crates as being some of the supplies that had been stolen recently on their way to the Bone Pit. Garrett had insisted on putting the Amell crest on… pretty much everything, and I’d heard him complain about stolen goods.

There were also mages everywhere.

Or, well, not everywhere. In total, there were maybe ten mages. I could see seven, but I was also tied to something with my back to part of the room, and it wasn’t like these caves didn’t have a plethora of places to hide. Malia had found stashes over fifty years old on some of her explorations.

To top that off, I was all but naked. My armor and Maleficent were nowhere in sight, and even my feet were bare against the wet stone floor. I had on only my pants, and they were thin enough to have me shudder from the cool underground air, goosebumps rising along my arms.

But what worried me most was that I could not see or hear Littlefoot, could not feel him tied up behind me as I may have expected. It was bad enough to be caught by blood mages, my armor and staff taken off somewhere, but armor can be replaced. Even Maleficent, as precious as she was to me, was an inanimate object, and not completely irreplaceable. But Littlefoot was alive, was a creature entirely unique, and could never be replaced.

I didn’t say a word, though, didn’t ask where I was or where he was or why the blood mages (because this was certainly the cabal of blood mages I’d heard rumor of, and I cursed my own stupidity) had attacked us. I was in shock, more or less, and numb between it and the cold that had woken me.

“Cat got your tongue, Warden?” asked a teasing, singsong voice from somewhere behind me. At least eight mages, then, and I’d been right to assume some were behind me, as well. I wondered where the others were hiding. “Or do you know why we took you? Is your guilt enough to silence you?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, didn’t know who was speaking or what I was meant to be feeling guilty of. Had I killed one of this woman’s friends, perhaps? Maybe she knew Tarohne. Maybe she’d been one of Tarohne’s apparently plentiful disciples. Or a raider, even—they were not opposed to blood magic, though it was generally unusual for there to be so many mages in such a group, and I didn’t see any non-mages (the robes were really quite telling; even Garrett avoided them). But I wouldn’t feel guilty over that—had never, that I was aware, shown even the slightest remorse for killing people like Tarohne.

“I don’t think he knows,” said one of the mages in front of me, a young man with a large scowl. He held himself with a pompous posture, like he was accustomed to being pampered and petted, not squatting out in caves where the stench of rotting fish and salt-crusted air would sink right into your soul.

“How can he not?” the first voice returned. She all but spat the words, the final consonant followed by an irritated hiss of air that I swore stirred a storm.

“Don’t ask me,” Pompous said, and folded his arms. His scowl grew, though I hadn’t thought such a thing would be possible. “ _I’m_ not the one who came up with this idea.”

“Shut _up_ ,” whispered a larger man standing near Pompous, and he sneered but quieted.

Wet footsteps came around my shoulder. A particularly hard step splashed me with the stale water that had collected in a puddle there, and I flinched. The movement was met with a small snicker, like my kidnapper was particularly proud of herself for that. Perhaps she was.

“For a Grey Warden,” she said as she strutted into my view, walking just as confidently and condescendingly as she spoke, “you certainly aren’t very bright.” I took offense to that, though I didn’t dare breathe a word of it, because one thing I’d prided myself on as a child had been my intelligence. I was smart, dammit. I just had no fucking clue what she was on about, and her obnoxious words weren’t helping. I swallowed my pulse down.

She folded her robes behind her as she sat on the only available crate, as if anything would save the sand-covered hem. It was already torn in a few places. At least her boots, made of greenish leather, seemed to be faring better. When I met her eyes, I saw they were completely surrounded by tattoos I couldn’t recognize, symbols and words that were certainly significant, but whose meaning was beyond my knowledge.

“Bring the dog,” she ordered, still looking at me, and someone got up to follow her order. My heart leapt, and she saw the hope in my face, because she smirked. “Oh, yes, we have your mabari. A very fierce creature, to be sure, but hardly a challenge to one with the powers I’ve been granted.”

_Creators, let him be safe. Dareth, da’fen, dareth_ , I thought, trying to will him to be well despite her ominous words. I heard him long before I saw him, growling and snapping at whoever had him, then whimpering when they hit him. My chest fell in at the sound, like a black hole had formed in place of my lungs.

And when I saw him, it only grew larger and more helpless, because my beautiful Littlefoot, my strong and precious protector, had bloody scabs covering his body already. This time, I was the one who whimpered, his pain becoming mine for a moment, and his head whipped up to me. He barked and made to jump to me, but Pompous kicked one of the wounds on his chest, and he fell to the ground.

“No!” I screamed, hardly aware of it, and strained in his direction. The wooden pole I was tied to bit my bare arms and the poor quality rope strangled my wrists. Large shoved Littlefoot back to his feet, and I saw red on the floor where he’d landed. I wanted very badly to reach out and heal him, as I had so many times before, but my hands had been carefully tied away, and I could not hope to control my spell if I attempted it now, could not hope to do more than release a burst of unaimed energy.

Somewhere around the edges of my awareness, which became limited to myself, Littlefoot, and the space between us, I could hear my kidnapper laughing. I didn’t look at her, didn’t dare take my eyes off my dog. I could all but taste the blood he’d shed, and I knew that it was my fault. I should have been more aware, more cautious. The Wounded Coast wasn’t safe on the best of days. I was a fool.

“He gave us quite a challenge, you know,” my kidnapper said, drawing the words out like she was speaking to a child. “Even managed to bite a few of poor Anslow’s fingers off.” She didn’t sound upset over that. Littlefoot stared at me, his ears flat against his head, his face low to the ground. I wanted to tell him it’d all be alright, but I didn’t want to goad these people, didn’t want any more harm to come to my Littlefoot.

“Bring him here, Richie.” Pompous—Richie, what a dick name—dragged Littlefoot over, with one hand digging deep in his scruff. I was certain there would be bruising there, and if Richie weren’t the sort who seemed generally unwilling to dirty his own hands in any literal fashion, I might expect him to be pressing into wounds. As it was, I had only my fears and suspicions. “Thank you. You can sit, now.” Richie sat.

My kidnapper put her hand on Littlefoot’s head, and he flinched from it. She kicked him for his troubles, right in the ribs, and he yelped. Broken ribs, then, I was certain. “No!” I said, again. “No, please, don’t hurt him! He’s done nothing to you!”

She shrugged nonchalantly and stared down at me. I felt more threatened than a mouse trapped by a cat. I almost considered transforming into such a form and making my escape that way, since I had it, since it was certainly small enough to free me from my bonds, but they’d done something to drain my mana (perhaps magebane or some nefarious sort of blood magic), and without armor or a weapon, I was horrendously outmatched. I might be able to leave on my own, but I couldn’t possibly leave Littlefoot behind. The plan was scratched before it got more consideration.

“Perhaps the mutt has done nothing, true,” Kidnapper said, and this time when she placed her fingers on his head, Littlefoot did not dare move, “but you have done more than enough. And unfortunately, I need you alive.” She sighed dramatically, putting her other hand to her chest. “So the dog is leverage, you could say.”

Cruel. More cruel than I had thought initially, even when she brought Littlefoot out so battered and beaten and bruised. That had all been intentional, I realized, and not simply a result of him trying to keep me safe back on the path to the clan. Some of the injuries may well have come after, for no reason beyond sadistic desire. The thought drew bile to my throat, but I forced it back down. As terrible and terrifying as the situation was, I did not want to spend it sitting in a puddle of my own vomit. I was demeaned enough as it was.

“What do you want?” I whispered.

She clicked her tongue at me. “You are thick. Think, Warden. What ever could a group of mages hold against you, hm? Many of us are envious of your position, you know. A Grey Warden! Living outside the Chantry and its Circles, branded neither apostate nor maleficar, free to live as he so pleases.

“And yet you chose… Kirkwall.” A great huff of disgust left her. I thought I could smell her distaste in her breath, a smell like rot and death, though she was sitting too far for that to be truly plausible. “I will never understand what could have possessed you to come here, of all places, but that is not the problem. Oh, no.

“The _problem_ ,” she said, enunciating very clearly and very loudly, ensuring without a shadow of a doubt that I would both hear and understand her words, “is far more recent. Because, you know, people _talk_ when they see you enter the Gallows and leave again, both times of your own free will. I would never step foot back there. I will die before that can happen, I swear it.”

These were things I knew already, but had expected to become old news as the years passed. It was probably common knowledge, if only through rumor and hearsay, that I reported to Meredith in some capacity. Most would likely realize that, because I was a mage, it was a ‘necessary stipulation’ to allow my peaceful existence in Kirkwall.

Not all, it seemed. And anti-magic sentiment wasn’t the only thing I should fear.

Kidnapper narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be dull now, Warden. I’ve heard the rumors. I’ve heard that you are one of the great Heroes of the Fifth Blight, one who faced down hordes of darkspawn in Denerim and came back alive!” The scar over my right shoulder to my chest and the ones that crisscrossed my fingers echoed with an old phantom pain the way they did every time I thought about that battle.

“I don’t care what business someone so important and lauded like you might have in Kirkwall. Whatever reason you’re staying is really so far from the point that it’s not worth mentioning. What I do care about is what you do at the Gallows.” She dug her nails into an open wound over Littlefoot’s ear. His head sank lower, and he whined.

Realization is a funny thing. No matter how it happens, good or bad, it always leaves you breathless and gets your heart pumping like after a hard run. She saw when it hit me, when it passed through and stole the air from my lungs as it left, quickening my pulse and stinging my eyes in its void-like wake, and she smiled. “Now you see.”

_Now you see._

The Gallows. I hadn’t forgotten the other duties that brought me there, but I hadn’t realized that any but the Templars might know of them. Hadn’t thought that it may be the talk of that prison, hadn’t thought to even ask for any kind of anonymity—though it was doubtful I’d have received as much, even if I _had_ asked.

Whatever this maleficar wanted, whatever she’d kidnapped me and beat Littlefoot and stolen my things for, it was because I was training Templars on how to fight mages in a more practical sense. The tension was always high enough when they were aware in a theoretical way, with practice only from sparring one another and honing the use of their powers. My—my _intervention_ , my ever-loathed lessons had sparked something angrier than I had expected, and I had barely begun. This was just the beginning.

When I could breathe again, I took in a gasping sob of air. What was I being asked now? What exactly did they want of me? I couldn’t stop my lessons. They’d hardly even begun, and the Templars knew, were fully aware, thanks to _me_ , thanks to _my stupid training_ , that they had little chance against a mage without using their gifts. Not even against most apprentices, and especially not against multiple mages working in tandem.

And, and, and if I stopped, Anders would be taken and made Tranquil. If I stopped, I might be made Tranquil, for the sheer audacity of quitting so early on. I wouldn’t put it past Meredith. Already there were whispers of her madness. Already she branded for the slightest infringements, and this would hardly be considered _slight._

But if I didn’t… If I didn’t stop, if I kept teaching, the Templars would learn how to kill a mage even without Cleansing the area. How to kill a fully-fledged enchanter of a Circle—possibly even Senior Enchanters or First Enchanters, like Orsino, because I didn’t think most had a great amount of fighting capability. Some, sure, because Wynne had known how, and she was a healer, but…

And if I didn’t stop, these maleficarum would kill Littlefoot. They may even kill me to make sure I stopped. Much as I expected Meredith would make me Tranquil for stopping, these maleficarum were obviously desperate. At the moment, they were probably the worse option. Not that I knew how to promise I would stop and have them believe me.

“I came from the Gallows, you know,” Kidnapper said. “Escaped just last season. I’ve been practicing blood magic for a very long time, hiding in all the places there that even the oldest Templars have forgotten about, and it was easy to get information on you. Richie here—he escaped only a few days ago. It was quite a surprise to hear from him just what you’d gotten up to, so when you so kindly walked right by us… Well, we just had to stop you!”

They hadn’t planned this. Not long enough to have much in place by way of security. Maybe—maybe I would be lucky. Any moment now, Malia and Garrett would come through to save me. That’s what they did. It’s what they’d always done.

Kidnapper smiled widely. “Tell me, my dear Warden. Tell me why you’ve done such a stupid thing. Surely you know this helps no mage but yourself.”

“For Anders,” I said. I would tell them whatever they wanted, as much as they needed to know, because I needed to be sure Littlefoot would be safe. Perhaps it made me weak, but I didn’t care. “They—they know where he is.”

“Because of you, no doubt,” she retorted, one lip lifting in disgust. “I know the Knight-Captain has made personal visits to you. Are you his little whore? I heard he had a soft spot for elves.”

I was certain I was crying by that point, but I was so dizzy from the general situation and so numb from shock that I didn’t notice. “N-no, nothing like that, please. I-I—w-we’re… His sister, she’s… she’s my—my friend. I promised her that I’d l-l-look out—for him.”

She clicked her tongue. “Pitiful. What did they promise you, then? What more does a Grey Warden with such a distinguished past need?”

“Th-they promised Anders would be safe,” I said, the words coming in a rush. “I-I couldn’t—yes, it’s my fault, I couldn’t keep—he… ir abelas, ir abelas. Please, let my mabari go, please… Let me heal him, he needs it so badly.”

“No.” She didn’t even pretend to think about it, but glared at me down her nose, scrunching it up like I smelled. I couldn’t have been a pretty sight, cowering and crying as I was. She drew a knife and put it against the back of Littlefoot’s neck. My breath stopped, freezing in the back of my throat. “Not until you _tell the truth_.”

“I am!” I cried. I was a terrible liar, had always been.

“Anders doesn’t need your protection and you know it. Everyone knows it. Tell the truth!” She dug the knife into Littlefoot’s neck, and I saw blood trickle.

“I swear to you! Dirthavara, it’s the truth! To protect him, always to protect him, please—no, no, please, please don’t—Creators, please…”

The knife slid down his back, opening the skin with almost no effort, sharp as a scalpel. Littlefoot whined, head low, but didn’t move; his feet had been frozen to the ground while I was distracted. I babbled desperately. “The truth, Warden,” Kidnapper said, voice as sharp as the blade she wielded, cutting into my mind.

I could feel the cold from the ice freezing Littlefoot’s feet; it seeped across the wet stone floor to tingle my knees. I could feel a ghost-imprint of the knife on my back. My lungs burned, deprived of oxygen between my panic and the suspense. “Meredith—sh-she’d make him Tranquil—Mythal protect us—please, stop, she said—I heard her, she said it to me, t-to my face, please, please…”

“I don’t believe you.” The knife was removed and plunged into Littlefoot’s side. He yelped, and I swore it was the loudest sound of my life. I became incoherent, and she pulled the knife free. He would bleed out if I could not say what she wanted, if I could not make her believe me.

I don’t remember what I said next. The words were babble, likely making little to no sense, as I tried everything I could to figure out what she wanted to hear, what would make her stop. The mages around us stared silently, unmoved, even when I turned to one of them to plead. I kept going, and so did she, drawing lines in blood with her knife, until an arrow caught her hand.

For a moment, the world stopped. In my desperate haze, I thought it must be Nathaniel, thought that he had come to save me. Again, my breath froze in my lungs. My kidnapper stared at the arrow in her hand. Littlefoot whined weakly from the floor. Everyone else just waited.

Another arrow caught her in the chest, pushing her back and away from Littlefoot with its force. She would be dead soon, and she realized it—so she used the last of her life force, the last breath in her lungs, to perform blood magic. There was certainly enough spilled blood in the room.

She became a Rage demon. Not an abomination, but an actual demon; the arrows disappeared into her new molten body as if they had never existed, and she roared. This sprang the other maleficarum into action, slitting their own arms or legs or what-have-you to cast their own blood magic in retaliation.

From behind me, more arrows sailed. One shot, perhaps due to luck, from the speed with which the mages were now moving, caught a mage in the eye, killing him. _Seven more,_ I thought, until a few others made themselves known from somewhere off to my left. I couldn’t see them, only hear their shouts, and did not know their number.

The arrows never let up for even a second, dropping into the cave like deadly hail. Another mage fell. Most had been hit at least once. Shades were summoned and dissipated with equal frequency. In the chaos, I heard the deep laugh of a Pride demon.

_Littlefoot_ , I thought, and looked down at him. My hands were still tied, my connection to the Fade still too weak to transform, and I could do little more than murmur platitudes at him. “Ir abelas, da’fen, ir abelas. Dareth, dareth, Mythal, please, protect him…”

But the blood coming from him was too much, and I could see it slowing. Slowing in the way that was not good, in the way that did not indicate clotting wounds but a lowered heartbeat, and my own quickened in response. “No, no, nonono, please, no—ar lath ma, da’fen, ar lath ma. Oh, Littlefoot, please, hold on just a bit longer, please, please…”

I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, couldn’t look up to watch the rest of the battle, so afraid was I. I cried, hard and fearful. This was, as can be expected, a terrible mistake, because it allowed me to be caught off guard. Not that I cared, at the time. My dog, my most precious companion, was dying in front of me. I strained against the ropes that tied me, but I couldn’t break free. I didn’t dare cast any spells, unsure I could control them, unsure I could keep Littlefoot safe from the blast I might make.

A hand caught my jaw and jerked my head away violently—something sharp caught on my face, down and across to my neck, opening a fresh cut, deep enough to be painful even through the shock. Sobbing, I was forced to look up at the one holding me: Richie. He shouted something to a different mage and brandished his knife. Droplets of bright blood flew off it and melted into shades. I could have sworn that all the world was demons and maleficarum and a rain of arrows in that moment.

Then he turned his rage on me and snarled, “I knew we should have just killed you!” I had only enough time for the bloody blade to blind me briefly as it caught the light of a passing fireball.

He brought it to my abdomen, shoving it deep and hard. He began to pull it up, to my ribcage, but an arrow caught his shoulder, then another in his side, and he fell, dragging the knife down instead, cutting my thigh. I saw him coughing in the light of another fireball, still alive but drowning in his own blood, and thought, _Good._

For what he did to Littlefoot, he deserved this. Deserved worse.

The cut in my neck must have hit a major vein, though it didn’t seem to have hit my artery, because my chest began to feel sticky, and the room grew fuzzy. I looked down at Littlefoot, but he was already dead. His chest had stopped moving, his eyes were unfocused, and every part of him was limp.

I screamed with the last of my air, willing something terrible to happen to all who had wrought this, unsure what but needing revenge, and then I fell into darkness myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Other Notes:
> 
> if you for any reason want me to tag this chapter with something other than 'death' and 'torture,' please don't hesitate to ask. i haven't tagged it with anything else because i consider it a spoiler to, y'know, put 'The Dog Dies' in the tags, and while littlefoot is certainly a major character in twots, i wasn't certain that his death would justify a Major Character Death archive warning, since he's not a major canon character. let me know if you disagree.
> 
> i hope you don't hate me too much for his death. i'm more than willing to justify it if you like, though. i do have reasons, and it's not just a Plot Point (though it certainly is that, as well).
> 
> thank you as always.
> 
> \--
> 
> _dareth, da'fen, dareth_ \- be safe, little wolf, be safe  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i'm sorry  
>  _dirthavara_ \- i promise  
>  _ar lath ma, da'fen, ar lath ma_ \- i love you, little wolf, i love you


	17. littlefootadahl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it just me or have i started actually giving mostly serious chapter titles what is going on
> 
> (well, okay, so i give serious titles to serious chapters. which has been... most, lately. oops.)
> 
> also there's a lot of elvish in this chapter. sorry not sorry. i love elvish.

I have patchy memories of what happened in the hours following Littlefoot’s death. I was not lucid for most of it, and have only flashes here and there: Mheganni’s worried face, Dalish accents surrounding me, being taken into Fenris’ arms, a ferry ride, and finally the soft, minty sensation of healing magic. I expected to awaken in the clinic, with Anders watching over me.

I did not.

When I woke up, of my own accord this time, I could not place where I was. The stones had a familiar look to them, but the room I was in didn’t match anything I’d seen. I was alone, dressed in an itchy tunic far too large for me and a pair of pants that were rolled up so they wouldn’t cover my feet.

I looked around, and started to sit up, but pain stopped me before I got far, and I let out a pitiful sound. Immediately, a chair I couldn’t see scraped against the floor and a robed mage rushed to my side. “No, lie back down, you’re still healing,” she said, hands gentle on my shoulders. I obeyed, but didn’t recognize her.

“W-where am I?” I asked, my voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

“The Gallows,” she said, and had the wherewithal to look contrite about it. My eyes widened and my heartbeat started to race once more, memories of what had happened flooding back.

“Littlefoot—my dog, please, where is he? Please, is he safe? I-I need to see him,” I begged, reaching one hand to clutch at her sleeve.

Her brows furrowed and she pouted at me. “I—you came alone, Warden. I mean, Malia Hawke and the man with the white hair, they brought you in, and there was no dog with them. I’m sorry.”

Tears slipped out. “Wh-why am I here?”

“They didn’t tell me. I… I can fetch the Knight-Captain for you. He asked to be told when you were awake. And your friends, they’ll want to know, too.” Before I could stop her, could try to get more information, she disappeared behind me. A door opened and shut, and I was alone in the room.

I felt so very weak. My connection to the Fade was restored, somehow, and I knew if things got desperate I could cast at least a few spells, but… But I didn’t have the energy to do much. The healers here—one of which was likely that woman—had probably saved my life, but they weren’t as skilled as Anders with internal bleeding. Even I was better, but healing oneself was always harder than healing someone else.

So, between my weakness and lack of confidence healing my own internal injuries, I was stuck there, for the moment. Even trying to sit up would be far from recommended, after the pain that had accosted me when first I tried.

The door behind me opened again, and this time I heard several footsteps (at least one pair armored) enter. As it closed, Malia and Fenris came into view on my left, Aveline not far behind. To my right, Cullen appeared, looking paler than I’d seen him since—since Uldred.

“How did this happen?” Aveline asked. “Of all the people to be kidnapped, you’re the last I’d expect among the people we know. For good reason, too.” She put a hand on the cot, frowning like she wanted to do something, but didn’t know what.

“Never mind that!” Malia said, waving a hand at her redheaded friend. “How are you feeling? How much do you remember? There was so much blood, we thought you might be dead—we took you here because it was closer. We could get here faster.”

The answer I’d needed, if not the one I’d wanted. I just hoped I would be allowed to leave when everything was said and done—that I wouldn’t be stuck here at the Gallows. This was no place for me. I forced myself to swallow and thought on how to respond, took inventory of my physical condition. “I… hurt. My wrists and knees and feet and stomach. And my neck.”

“Your injuries were extensive,” Fenris said, frowning down at me. I watched him, saw his eyes catch on the place over my jaw where Richie had cut me, as well as on my wrists where the ropes had burned my skin. I lifted a hand to inspect it myself, and was unsurprised to see both hand and wrist bound in white bandages.

“What do you remember, Vee?” Malia asked, again, her voice soft as she rubbed a hand along my arm.

“Blood mages,” I said, immediately. “The cabal on the Wounded Coast—they… saw me, by chance, a-and… _Mythal’abelas_.” My eyes felt hot, and tears leaked down my temples toward my hair. “L-littlefoot… they killed him. Ma da’fen—ma da’fen din’an him. Falon’Din, Littlefoot ghilana,” I prayed, and covered my face with my hands.

Malia pulled me close, tugging me gently into a hug. It hurt, both physically and emotionally, but I allowed it. I didn’t try to beg for Littlefoot back, didn’t ignore that he was dead. As much as I hated it, as much as I wished it weren’t so, I knew it would help no one. And so I simply let myself begin to grieve. It would take far more time than this one hug.

But I couldn’t let it destroy me.

When I had calmed down some, Aveline gave me a hug, too, and then asked what had become of the blood mages. “I don’t know,” I said. “I-I… I passed out. Blood loss, I think. One of them—they c-called him Richie—h-he… He stabbed me, and I…”

“They are dead.” Fenris caught my eye, making certain I heard him. The news had me going limp in relief, and Malia helped me to settle back down on the cot.

“Dead?” Cullen asked, speaking for the first time. “How do you know? Are you certain?”

“Mheganni assured it,” Fenris said. “She would not lie.”

I blinked and looked over to Fenris. “Mheganni?” I hadn’t seen her. How would she know that the blood mages were dead? Had she been there, kidnapped, too? Why?

“She saw your capture and sent her bird to Malia with a note. When we drew close, she and other hunters had already brought you out. She told us it was the blood mages, and that they had all been killed.” He sounded satisfied. Frankly, I was too—and relieved that Mheganni had not been at their mercies, and surprised that she would launch a rescue mission for me. She no longer hated me, but I had still expected… Well, not this.

But Cullen wasn’t as satisfied with this explanation. “Who is Mheganni? What hunters?”

Malia sighed like she was being put upon. “Knight-Captain, surely you’ve noticed Vir’era’s lovely face, haven’t you?” He frowned and began to stammer, and she lifted her finger. “Not in _that way_ —well, maybe in that way, he is really pretty—but I mean the tattoos. The Dalish markings? I’m sure you can figure out who might want to save a kidnapped Dalish elf.”

Cullen stared quite openly at my face then, and I met his gaze for only a moment, unable to keep it. “I see. I… had heard there was a Dalish clan camped near, but…” He shook his head. “I will report that the maleficarum are dead, then. The Knight-Commander will be pleased to hear that.”

My jaw tensed at those words. The _Knight-Commander_ , who had ordered and blackmailed me into this very situation. I would not sit by. I—I _hated_ her, suddenly, hated her more than I had ever thought I was capable of hating a person. Her madness had gone so quickly from abstract to personal, was the reason those blood mages took Littlefoot from me.

Oh, and I hated blood magic more than I ever had, too, but that, at least, was an abstract concept, an idea, and even something so sinister and unknown could be used for good in the right hands, as all things can—I was certainly aware of that, though I would never dare touch it, not with what it had taken from me.

But Meredith was real in a physical sense, was a person I could place all the blame upon, and though I did not consciously do as much, that is very certainly what happened. My eyes flicked up to Cullen again, and he started at whatever he saw there. Anger, probably. Hatred. _Vengeance._

“It is her fault,” I said, and my voice was clear and steady, sharp enough to pierce through armor. “For the lessons she forced me to begin and the restrictions she places upon mages, for the Tranquil which roam the halls of the Gallows like living ghosts—your Knight-Commander drove those blood mages to madness, and since they could not touch her, they found me.

“It is her fault that Littlefoot is dead, and you may tell her as much. If you do not, I will. Magic is a dangerous force and mages must be taught control, but Knight-Commander Meredith does not use control. She uses fear and tyranny—if you cannot see that, then I pity you. I have never seen a Circle so dismal in caring for the mages in its trust.”

I had sat up at some point while I was speaking, and I thought perhaps I was shaking, though my heart was steady and my voice didn’t waver. I continued, “After all, Knight-Captain, it is a Circle’s duty—a Templar’s duty—to care for the mages within as well as the non-mages without. Is it not?”

He didn’t reply at first, but his eyes were wide and his face still so very pale. Aveline murmured my name, either a warning or a consolation, but I barely noticed, entirely caught up in staring Cullen down. Eventually, he said, “Mages aren’t—like the rest of us. We do what we must to protect as many as we can.”

“Do you?” I asked. No response. Fuelled entirely by my anger, which felt righteous and mighty in the moment, I stood. “I have a report to make. I will not continue the lessons.”

Damn the consequences.

Ignoring my pain and injuries—against all applicable medical advice, please don’t try this at home—I marched myself to Meredith’s door, thankful that the Gallows, unlike the rest of Kirkwall, hadn’t been constructed to be as winding and confusing as possible. I did not knock, nor did I listen to see if Meredith were busy. I opened the door, and I entered entirely of my own accord.

“Warden,” Meredith said, as surprised as I had seen her. The mage from earlier was there, looking pale and nervous, as was a red-faced Orsino.

“Meredith,” I answered, not deigning to use her title. She narrowed her eyes, but the haze of anger and pain that I held to kept me from caring. “Because the blood mages attacked me and killed my mabari only for my particular recent association with Kirkwall’s Circle, I hereby am rescinding it. I will not be attacked for your wrongdoings.”

“My wrongdoings?” she echoed, eyebrows lifting. The healer’s eyes were so wide I thought they might fall from her face, and Orsino had whirled around to face me, his own face rapidly losing color. “Do elaborate.”

“The list in specifics is far too long for comprehensive retelling.” I folded my arms, aware that I could not make a particularly imposing figure as I was (all but drowning in a borrowed shirt and trousers, wounds obvious to everyone, with no armor or weapons to speak of), but I simply couldn’t bring myself to care. “In short: excessive use of the Rite of Tranquility for even minor infractions, overly strict rules imposed on your own Templars, to say nothing of the rules you impose upon your _charges_ , unnecessary raids performed in the city to expose any who oppose you, and blackmailing a Grey Warden for your own benefit. Shall I continue?”

Orsino’s eyes were wide, now, too. The healer had all but fainted, leaning discretely against a chair in what I assumed was a bid to keep from falling over. Meredith simply stared.

“What’s this I hear about blackmail?” asked Aveline. My friends and Cullen had followed after me, I noticed belatedly, and were listening very intently to the anger I let loose.

“I’m guessing,” Malia said, answering before Meredith had even a chance, “it has something to do with what Vir’era was saying earlier, about how the blood mages captured and attempted to kill _him_ because _she_ had forced him to start… some sort of lessons?” There was a pause, and though I didn’t look back to see it, I was certain she was looking around for confirmation. “We didn’t exactly hear what these lessons were. I’m guessing it wasn’t underwater basket-weaving.”

Cullen surprised me by taking a turn to speak. “No. It… Warden Vir’era was asked to help the Templars, so that if we were ever required to actually fight a mage without the use of our abilities, we could do so.” Another pause. Orsino was turning red again. “I was unaware he was blackmailed into it.”

“You’re teaching them to kill us!” Orsino accused, finding his voice again. “I know you don’t trust us—you never have, and it hasn’t mattered much before—but this is—this is something else entirely!”

“I am not teaching my Templars to kill all mages—” Meredith stood, her hands on the desk in front of her.

I interrupted. “Don’t _lie_ , Meredith. It’s unbecoming. You may pretend all you like, but the truth is that you _are_ teaching them to kill mages indiscriminately. Your Templar abilities have little effect on blood mages, this much is true, but you need no _help_ to kill mages. There would be far fewer blood mages in Kirkwall if you did not force them to it.”

“I do not force them to blood magic,” she said. “The weak find it on their own, desperate for power, and must be stopped at any cost. Do you disagree still, Warden?”

“That blood mages should be stopped?” I asked. “No, that much is true. That much has always been true. But remember this, _Knight-Commander_ , and remember it well: I blame you for all that mages in Kirkwall resort to. It is ultimately your own doing, in your zeal and your need for power, for control.”

I left the room, unwilling to continue any sort of argument, and my friends clustered around me. (Even Fenris, who I had almost expected would not, after such a loud declaration of alliance with mages.) When I crumpled, as soon as her door was shut, sweat breaking out on my brow and pain from my injuries overwhelming me, there were hands ready to catch me. At least I didn’t faint, though it was a close call.

Aveline picked me up this time, as my breath grew short. I fell into a panicked, pained daze as my friends rushed me away from the Gallows, muttering amongst each other. Eventually, we arrived at the clinic, and its familiar scents and sounds calmed me enough that I didn’t think I was in immediate danger of… desperate measures.

Anders didn’t even hesitate to begin working on me, muttering all the while. He ordered Aveline and Fenris to fetch this or hold that with no hesitation, and they listened obediently. It was probably one of the few times Fenris and Anders were so civil.

My borrowed shirt was removed and the bandages around my stomach unwrapped. The damage to my leg, at least, had been healed enough to Anders’ discerning eye that he felt no particular need to divest me of my pants, and I was very grateful for such.

Anders healed me with the kind of professional efficiency and perfectionism that no Circle mage, not even Wynne, ever quite learned. It was something I was certain had been borne of his extended escapes from the Circle, then compounded upon here in this clinic in Kirkwall, where he was able to really master the art.

By the time he was done, I felt very little pain. He was panting from it, flashes of blue cracking the skin on his hands and face, but he maintained control. “What happened?” he asked. “I heard—Garrett was here earlier, but he went to find Varric—I heard… blood mages. And the Gallows.”

“More or less,” I said, a little breathless myself. He didn’t say anything about Littlefoot. I didn’t offer anything.

“Vir’era was taken by blood mages,” Aveline said, “and Mheganni saved him with some of the other Dalish hunters. She sent her owl to the Hawkes, and since Fenris was closest, they took him and ran to meet her. The Gallows were closer, and as you can tell, his injuries were extensive.”

“You don’t say.” Anders sighed and pressed the heel of his palm against his eye. “They can’t heal for shit. Enough that going there probably saved his life, but please, unless it’s a circumstance like that, just… just come here.”

“They would have, I’m sure,” Aveline said.

“Coulda woulda shoulda,” said Malia, entering the clinic. I hadn’t realized she’d separated from us, but given that she had Merrill and Mheganni in tow, I figured she’d gone to collect them.

Mheganni was carrying my armor and Maleficent, and she brought them to me. “Ir abelas, lethallin. If we had been faster…”

She meant Littlefoot. “You did nothing wrong, lethallan. You saved me. That is more than enough. Ma serannas, Mheganni.”

She nodded, but continued to frown. “I… We took him up to the clan and gave him a proper burial. When you are well, I will take you to see where we have planted his tree.”

My eyes filled with tears then. I hadn’t expected this—had hoped that maybe someone would do something, even if all they did was bury him in the cave where he died—but this… This was far more. This was an honor if ever there was one. “Ma serannas,” I whispered, and the simple words were nowhere near enough to truly express my gratitude, but they would have to do.

Malia reached out and petted my hair, which must have been washed when I was at the Gallows. “Whatever it was that Meredith was holding over you…”

I didn’t want to say it was Anders, couldn’t put him in such a position. “I… I don’t know that the clinic is safe, now,” I said instead.

Her jaw clenched and she glanced out the clinic doors, where I knew nearby there was a hidden passage that went up to the Hawke estate. “Then you and Anders will live with us,” she declared.

“No, Malia—” I started, but she shook her head and frowned down at me.

“Ah-ah-ah! This isn’t a choice, actually. Besides, there’s, like… at least seven rooms, and we only use four. Five if you count the one Mother insists on keeping aside for Carver, even though it’s not like he’ll ever really be able to visit.” She shrugged. “And it’s easy access to the clinic, so you won’t have to move that. You’ll just come up when trouble’s around and back down when it leaves. Like a bad cold.”

“That’s not precisely the way I intended to invite Anders to live with us,” said Garrett, arriving just in time to deliver the comment. “But she does have a point. You should both move in. Preferably by tonight, because I don’t know what happened at the Gallows, but I know that look Malia’s making, so it can’t have been good.”

“So little faith!” she exclaimed. He just stared at her.

“It was actually my fault this time,” I said, but Garrett didn’t seem to find the information relevant. Someone (probably Aveline) sighed.

Isabela and Varric sauntered over to my cot. “You’ve got a new scar,” Isabela commented, and traced where I’d been cut on my jaw. “I’d say it’s a pity to hurt your pretty face, but I think it actually suits you.”

“Mittens, I think you actually might attract more trouble than anyone else here,” Varric said. “That’s quite the accomplishment. You sure you still don’t want me to write a book for you? It’d be damn good, if I do say so myself.”

As the clinic doors opened once more, this time to Sebastian worriedly asking what was happening, I let myself smile. Just a small one, and it still hurt, but everyone had come to see me, and that was enough to remind me that I was wanted. I fell asleep not long after, exhausted from the little I’d done and the healing Anders had given me.

 

True to Garrett’s words, Anders and I moved into the Hawke estate that night, in time for dinner. We didn’t have much of personal value to bring. In fact, we each only had a backpack. The sight brought a frown to Garrett’s face, but he covered it quickly with a smile. Anders moved right into Garrett’s room, unsurprisingly, and I had my pick of any unoccupied room. I chose the one with the most windows.

It was easy to live with the Hawkes. Leandra had been confused, at first, about why we were suddenly there, but soon began to fuss over Anders and me as if she were our own mother. Bodhan made sure we ate enough, which was sometimes a chore—what he considered to be ‘enough’ wasn’t always what I considered to be ‘enough,’ and I had a few days where I felt I simply couldn’t eat another bite, even when he insisted I must.

Time passed with little care for my own emotional state. When I was really and truly fully healed (though Anders had taken care of most of the damage, some things cannot be made entirely right without time), Mheganni (who had been staying with Merrill, and had much to say about Isabela’s courtship of her friend) took me to the clan.

I sat at the small sapling planted for Littlefoot for a very long time. I only sang the mourning song once, though. Sometimes I talked to him, but mostly I just sat there and meditated. Revas (Mheganni’s owl) would join me sometimes, and I took to watching him. The practical part of me knew that having an owl form in my repertoire could only be good, and I found myself dedicating some time each day to simply observing Revas.

He was a large bird—an eagle owl—and very intelligent. Moreso, I believed, than most others of his kind. He’d managed to find the Hawkes when Mheganni needed them to help me, and he stayed by my side often, even when it was obvious that he preferred Mheganni’s touch to mine.

Sometimes Edelweiss sat with us, too. I think she knew that Littlefoot had died, and was buried beneath the sapling, because I saw her nudge at the ground there once or twice. She never ate the leaves from that sapling, but others were not so lucky.

And life moved on, slowly, slowly, slowly.

 

One day, perhaps a week and a half after I’d come to the clan, when I had nearly mastered the owl form, I looked up from my meditations to see a young child—a toddler, certainly no more than four years old, if even that. Mheganni was sitting nearby, as she occasionally did, tending to Edelweiss with a brush I’d been told was made of shed halla whiskers. (I hadn’t even known they had whiskers.)

The child, pointed ears sticking prominently out of messy, close-cropped hair, was staring at me. I blinked, waiting a moment to see if eye contact would elicit any words, but none came forth. So instead, I greeted, “Aneth ara, da’len.”

“’Nef ’ra, hahren,” came the reply. I couldn’t even be displeased at being called ‘hahren’ when I was certainly anything but. A hahren was wiser than I, knew more of the world and did not let a single death overwhelm him so.

“Vir’era isn’t a hahren,” Mheganni said, apparently thinking this worth correcting. “He’s our First.”

“Firs?”

“First, yes, da’len. This means that one day,” she explained, never stopping with her brush, “when Keeper Marethari is too old to continue being our Keeper, Vir’era will be our Keeper.”

Those wide eyes just blinked. “Oh.”

I glanced between the child and Mheganni, hoping for an explanation, and saw Mheganni smirk a little. She was enjoying my confusion. I hadn’t seen any children in the clan before, though all my previous visits had been rather brief. Somehow, I had almost thought that perhaps there weren’t any, despite the occasional pregnant woman I’d encountered.

“What’s your name, da’len?” I asked, smiling with the hope that I might get some actual information if only I was kind.

“Ara Tamlen.” I felt my jaw drop a little. I’d known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that the clan would name a child after Tamlen, but I hadn’t—I hadn’t expected to meet him, somehow. I should have.

Mheganni was watching me, I was sure of it, even if her eyes never left Edelweiss’ fur. I smiled again. “Tamlen. Ara Vir’era.”

He nodded at me and wandered a bit closer, watching me carefully. All Dalish children were generally kept out of sight of outsiders, if only because so very few outsiders were specifically friendly. Tamlen was certainly no exception, given that even I—Dalish myself, and having known the clan for years—was only just meeting him.

Eventually, he reached the edge of Littlefoot’s grave. He sat down there and patted the dirt. “Vir’era’fen,” he said. Mheganni must have mentioned why I was here. “Din’an him?” His innocent question, coming from such a sweet face, all but broke my heart.

Mheganni gasped quietly and hissed out something that sounded like a reprimand, but I just smiled. “Ma fen din’an him,” I confirmed. “Na Littlefoot.”

“Littlefoot?” His nose scrunched up as he repeated the name, like he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean. He looked at his own feet. “Ma foots little. Ara sahlin Littlefoot?”

“Ne Tamlen!” He giggled when I corrected him, obviously having been hoping for that outcome. The way he casually blended what little Elvish had been preserved with the common tongue, as if this were the obvious thing to do, was frankly adorable, though I wished it were not necessary. I wished he could have all the words he needed in Elvish.

“Tamlen,” Mheganni said. She didn’t say more, but she didn’t need to. Whatever it was she intended to convey came through loud and clear to the little one, and he stood up to walk right up to me.

“Ree ‘belas, Vir’era,” he said, eyebrows pulled together in a way that simply didn’t suit a child as young as him. At least his words, with their sound displacement and deletion, matched the age he appeared to be.

“Ma serannas, Tamlen,” I replied. “Can I hug you?” He looked like he needed one. If I were honest, I needed one, too.

He looked at Mheganni, as if to make sure it was okay, and once she nodded, he just about threw himself on me. Holding his small body against me, feeling the warmth that slipped from his skin to settle on mine, I reminded myself why I do the things I do. It had been years, and I had been able to hide away in my own little world. I’d almost forgotten.

But I remembered then—or, at least, I started to. He did not heal all the pain I felt from Littlefoot’s death, nor is he what brought me out of my mourning state, but he was a catalyst, and is due some credit for that, if nothing else. The quiet sorrow that I didn’t think most children his age truly understood—wasn’t certain he truly understood—was easier, knowing that he, without knowing who I was beyond my name and my place in his clan, was sorry I had lost someone important.

“Ma serannas, Tamlen,” I repeated, letting him go. The sunset cut a line across his face, leaving part of it in shadow from the mountains and trees. I stroked his hair, an orangey-brown in this colored light, and stood slowly. It was late, after all. “Perhaps we should head back to camp.”

Mheganni, finished with brushing out Edelweiss’ fur, looked up at me in surprise. It was the first time since my arrival that I’d been the one to suggest returning; each time previously, she or Arianni would come to fetch me for dinner. I smiled at her. She smiled back.

With one of little Tamlen’s hands holding my own, we walked back to the central fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mythal'abelas - mythal's sorrow  
> ma da'fen din'an him. falon'din, littlefoot ghilana. - my little wolf is dead. falon'din, guide littlefoot.  
> ir abelas - i'm sorry  
> lethallin - endearment  
> ma serannas - thank you  
> aneth ara - casual greeting  
> da'len - little one  
> hahren - elder  
> ara tamlen/vir'era - i'm tamlen/vir'era  
> vir'era'fen - vir'era's wolf (intended to mean dog here but fen is wolf so)  
> din'an him - is dead  
> ma fen din'an him - my wolf is dead  
> na littlefoot - is littlefoot  
> ma foots little - (lmfao) my feet are little  
> ara sahlin littlefoot? - am i littlefoot now?  
> ne tamlen - you're tamlen  
> ree 'belas - ir abelas - i'm sorry  
> littlefootadahl - littlefoot's tree
> 
> \--
> 
> apologies for how literal some of these translations are (on the into-english end, since i usually elaborate) but i think it makes sense. lemme know if not. i'm tired af today (long day at work on 4h of sleep + more work tomorrow). the last two chapters have been a bit short but feel free to go to my tumblr vir'era tag to browse the 30 day challenge i did for him ([here is link](http://dinosaurdragon.tumblr.com/tagged/vir'era)) bc i rambled a LOT. which ngl is probably why these chapters have been a bit shorter. sorry? ( i usually try to be around 5k words....)
> 
> thank


	18. letters and replies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this chapter was supposed to be longer but i have been so tired. so so tired. i barely managed to write enough to put up today.
> 
> i'm HOPING i'll have a chapter to put up next week but i make no guarantees bc i'm adjusting really slowly to my job (it's at weird hours so). but i'll try. and as usual, fi i can't get a proper chapter up, i'll at least have something new over in missing moments.

[A letter written hastily, with ink stains blotting much of the paper. Some words are barely legible. It is addressed to Warden-Commander Castor Cousland, Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine, and sealed with red wax.]

Castor,

I hope this letter reaches you quickly. I’ve done something inarguably stupid, but I can’t take it back now, and I can only hope that my word reaches you before anyone else’s. If anyone else thinks to write you, of which I’m uncertain.

I think I’ll start at the beginning. You know enough, I think, and can tell from the letters I’ve sent that I don’t care for Knight-Commander Meredith. I don’t think there is a person alive who has heard of my interactions with her that would think I care for her at all.

There were blood mages hiding in the Wounded Coast—a whole cabal, Castor, at least ten in number from what I gathered—and when I went to visit my clan, because Keeper Marethari has seen fit to name me her First, they kidnapped me. I was not alone at the time, but I had only Littlefoot for company, and wasn’t paying attention, as I should have, knowing they were there. It was a mistake that I have paid very dearly for, and one that I shall never repeat. Please, if only out of respect for me, promise never to trust a blood mage.

They killed Littlefoot. Tied me up, took my armor and my staff, bound my hands behind my back. They tortured him and made me watch—his death was not clean as a mabari’s should be, was not a result of a battle or old age or the taint as I had always expected, and I will never forgive myself or them for this, even though they are now as dead as he.

But Castor, I do not blame magic. I can never blame magic, because there is nothing in magic that inherently presents a desire for greater power or any thought that demons can be tamed. No, for this act, I blame Meredith Stannard, because she doesn’t know how to be kind and just and fair—only firm and feared. She is a tyrant, Castor, and I have told her as much.

Because I am stupid and I was reckless. I awoke in the Gallows, having been injured by the blood mages even as I was being rescued. (Mheganni, the surly Dalish archer with the owl, was the one to rescue me. I owe her a great debt.) Perhaps because I was there, or perhaps because the pain I was in made me forget myself for a moment, I confronted not only Knight-Captain Cullen, but also Knight-Commander Meredith.

My last letter to you will hopefully arrive before this one, though I don’t know how soon before, but in it I mention the lessons she forced me to begin teaching. I believe those are the root of the problem. I didn’t tell you why I agreed then, because I was scared and thought you could do nothing, but at this point I have so completely destroyed any thought of peacefully continuing to live in Kirkwall that I see no reason to keep it from you now: Meredith blackmailed me. She knew of Anders’ existence before, but did nothing of it because I had explained that he was my responsibility, as a runaway Grey Warden.

This time, she did not allow such to continue. I think she has—it’s hard to explain in detail, and much of what I want to say I cannot put to paper with only the expectation that you will see it and the hope no others shall, but she is going insane. She covers it well, and appears no more mad at a glance than when first I met her, but there is something sinister about her now. I can almost sense it in the air around her.

I write to you not to ask for help, because there’s little you can do and less I would ask of you, but to make sue you hear from me what happened, and to explain why I may be out of touch for some time, if things go as poorly as I fear.

The Hawkes are kind enough to myself and Anders, probably kinder than we deserve, and have taken us in to their home. Garrett says I should ask that all mail to me be addressed to the Hawke Estate now.

I’m sorry for this, my friend. It may be best now to declare that I am no longer a Grey Warden—or, at least, no longer part of Vigil’s Keep. We both know it has been years since I truly was part of the Order proper, anyway.

Stay safe. Tell the others as well. Tell anyone who asks. I have nothing left to hide.

Vir’era, 9:34 Dragon

 

[A letter written with less haste, but still not in a steady hand. There are fewer inkblots. It is addressed to Mia Rutherford, Honnleath, and sealed similarly to the first.]

Mia,

I don’t know when this will reach you. It has hardly been long enough since my last letter for it to have reached you, but I find I’ve news you may need to know—or at least will want to hear, because I’ve done something very stupid.

The details are nothing to put to paper, let alone to tell a friend by such means, but Littlefoot, my beloved mabari, has died at the hands of blood mages. I nearly died as well, but Mheganni saved me in time. She brought several of the hunters from my clan, and though I heard a few were wounded badly, I have heard of no deaths yet. I pray none died to save me; I don’t know that I am worthy of such effort.

I awoke in the Gallows, and though your brother was one of the first to greet me, and even seemed concerned for my wellbeing, I reacted poorly. I declared to him that I blame the Knight-Commander for my mabari’s death, and while this is true, I believe I may have been unnecessarily cruel about it—to him, at least. When I told as much to the Knight-Commander herself, well… I don’t think there is a way to say such a thing too cruelly to such a person.

I know Cullen has told you not to listen too closely to my worries and fears and hatred for Meredith, because he thinks her to be fair and even respects her (or such is the impression I have gotten), but I urge you to believe me when I say that much of the terror mages in Kirkwall have cause is indirectly related to her own actions. She has pressed us too far, pressed even myself too far with the lessons she made me begin for her Templars, and almost any person, when faced with a dangerous path to freedom or a certain path to death, will choose freedom. I know this with absolute certainty.

Because I have openly defied her, and because I may well be considered to be an apostate myself, I may not be able to write for a time. If I die, someone will let you know, but I have no plans to do that yet.

For now, I am living with the Hawkes, because Garrett insisted. If you write to me, address it to the Hawke Estate. I’ll receive it in time.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:34 Dragon

 

[A reply on a strip of torn parchment. The address is written on its reverse: Warden Vir’era Sabrae, Hawke Estate, Kirkwall.]

Vir’era,

You better get yourself ready, Warden. I’m coming up there, and there is no force in the world that can stop me. Be a dear and warn Cullen, too. I can’t afford to send two letters and bring myself up.

Mia Rutherford, 9:34 Dragon

 

[This letter is written the most steadily yet, and only a few drips of ink mar it. It is addressed to Connor Guerrin, Kinloch Hold, and sealed neatly with red wax.]

Connor,

This letter won’t be long. I’ve a lot of letters to write today. But I’m afraid I’ve done something terrifyingly stupid for a mage, and I don’t know how far the effects will reach. Be careful, please.

My mabari, Littlefoot, died at the hands of blood mages. I’ve vocally placed the blame at Knight-Commander Meredith’s feet—and I feel this is right, and just, but I accused her to her face, defied her loudly in ways no mage at a Templar’s mercy should ever defy a Knight-Commander, and I’m worried now, now that I am safe and healed from the blood mages’ wounds, that I may have just made things worse for mages here.

I know Kinloch Hold is better than Kirkwall, but I don’t know how far Meredith’s reach goes. Be careful. I’ll write again soon, I hope. For now, I grieve and heal, living at the Hawke Estate, and soon I will go to be with my clan a while.

Take care, Connor.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:34 Dragon

 

[A reply. The author’s worry is evident both in the words written and the uncharacteristic slant to the lines, normally meticulously even. It is addressed to Warden Vir’era Sabrae, Hawke Estate, Kirkwall.]

Vir’era,

I’m always careful, you know this, but I’ll make sure I’m even moreso for a while. And I’ll try to keep the others here careful, if I can. It’s hard, but I have a couple friends, so… that helps.

Just remember to keep yourself safe, too. Whatever the cause might be, however cruel Meredith seems, please keep yourself safe, okay? You’re a good person, and there’s not nearly enough of those around. Littlefoot’s loss can’t be remembered as it should be if you go off and get yourself killed or turned Tranquil.

I’ll pray for you.

Connor Guerrin, 9:34 Dragon

 

[Following is a series of letters, to various members of Vir’era’s acquaintance, informing them that Littlefoot has died and occasionally giving a rough outline of the events following his death. Within three weeks, letters began to arrive, addressed to Vir’era.

[The first reply to arrive, on paper finer than any other, bearing the Royal Seal of Ferelden pressed into golden wax. The handwriting is immaculate, even if the words are not.]

Vee,

I am so, so sorry. I wish I could do something for you. To help or something. But short of doing something like publicly disapproving of Knight-Commander Meredith (which Capella says we could do, but is not recommended), I… don’t think there’s anything I can do. Or give or send. I thought about trying to send you a mabari pup, but since we can’t be sure it’d bond to you, and it’d be hard to send it, and it feels almost like I’d be trying to replace Littlefoot, I didn’t. But if you ever want a new mabari, come to Denerim. I’ll make sure you have first pick. I mean, unless Capella wants one at the same time.

If it’s unsafe for you to stay in Kirkwall, you’ll always have a room here at the palace. I’ll come up with some kind of title for you if I have to. Like… advisor for the Dalish, or something. Grey Warden advisor? Ambassador to the Dalish? Or would it be from the Dalish? Capella says it’d have to be from the Dalish unless I sent you to the clans most of the time. Which I could do, if you wanted. But I’d rather have you around, I think.

I’m sure Castor would be happy to have you back in Vigil’s Keep, too, of course, but I wanted to make the offer. You know, to be sure you knew. Because you deserve to know, after all you’ve done for us.

If there’s anything I can do for you, send word to me. I’ll see it done to the best of my ability, I promise you this much. I can’t do everything, but I can do enough, most of the time. At least, it’s worked so far.

Keep yourself safe. I’ll pray for you.

Alistair Theirin, 9:34 Dragon

PS: Vir’era, though I can’t blame you for what you’ve done, please remember to be wary of Meredith. You may not tell Alistair or myself everything, but Castor and I talk often. He told me of your own reports and of what Warden Carver Hawke knew about Meredith. Follow Alistair’s advice: keep yourself safe. We worry for you, perhaps more than we worry for anyone else. Well, you, Theron, and Zevran—I hear so little from them, and everything I have heard places those two in at least as much danger as you. Don’t give me cause to worry more, or I will do something about it. That is both a threat and a promise, Vir’era. Stay safe. –Capella

 

[This letter is on paper that has seen better days, and is among the last to arrive. No wax seals it, and it appears to have been opened at least once before arriving at the Hawke Estate. It is accompanied by a plush toy wyvern wrapped carefully in cloth, miraculously clean and whole.]

Vir’era,

Ir abelas, lethallin. In Uthenera na revas; Falon’Din Littlefoot ghilana. I remember when you first insisted on finding that flower in the Wilds before our Joining. Though I did not entirely understand, and perhaps never will, Littlefoot was a great mabari. He was as skilled in combat as any of our number, and I know he was of great help to you in more than that alone. I can only imagine he became ever more helpful as time continued.

Zevran sends his deepest condolences, and we’ve purchased a gift for you, which should arrive with this letter. I wish we could do something more, lethallin, but we are unable to leave where we are currently staying. My thoughts and prayers will be with you. But I promise, when we have finished what we came to Antiva for, I will come to see you, and there is nothing that will stop me. Until then, my words and the gift I have attached will have to be enough. Ar lath ma, lethallin. Mala suledin nadas.

I remember you once spoke of a stuffed dragon that you kept before coming here. I could not find a dragon, but a local seamstress had a single stuffed wyvern that she was willing to part with. Though this is a poor substitute for a mabari, and nothing can replace Littlefoot truly, I hope this stuffed wyvern will make his passing easier. She has no name yet; I thought I would leave the honor to you, as you have always had a skill for that which I lack. The seamstress insisted only that I tell you the wyvern is a she, and that you respect this. I have assured her you would.

I cannot tell you all that Zevran and I have done, but I can say we are safer now than we have been in some time. If all goes well, we will only continue to grow safer. Someday, we may even be able to stop running.

All my best. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

Theron Mahariel, 9:34 Dragon

 

[A letter written in somewhat sloppy, unpracticed hand. All the words are spelled correctly, though a few letters seem to have been changed post-writing. It is sealed with blue wax and the mark of the Grey Wardens.]

Vee,

Velanna tells me the Dalish bury their dead and plant trees in their honor. I’m guessing Littlefoot got such a burial. Or, at least, I’m hoping he did. If there was ever a dog that deserved it, Littlefoot did. I mean, Dracula and Stellaluna are great, always have been, and my little Terror certainly pulls his weight, but there was just something special about Littlefoot, I think.

I planted a tree here for him, actually. Asked Castor if it was alright, and got Velanna to approve of the location and the kind of tree, and we planted it right up near the entrance. Whenever you come back to visit, you’ll see it first thing. It’s just a little thing right now—Velanna said the tree was a doll of Mythal or something, so if we take good care of it, it should be nice and big someday.

Anya and I will keep you in our thoughts and all that. Not sure what good it does, but I guess it’s always nice to know that people are worried about you. We want the best for you, and though I’m sure Castor has already said as much, there’ll always be a place waiting for you at Vigil’s Keep.

Faren (and Anya) sort-of Aeducan sort-of Brosca, 9:34 Dragon

 

[This letter was the most unexpected. It came later than most, having almost gone unsent. The handwriting is neat but hesitant; ink has pooled on some letters, but it is all legible. Like several others, it is sealed with the wax and seal of the Grey Wardens.]

Vir’era

You probably don’t need even more people writing to you and saying how sorry they are for your loss, but I couldn’t just ignore it, either. We may have both moved on, but you’ll always be someone important to me. So please, know I grieve for your loss.

Faren said he mentioned Littlefoot’s tree here in his letter to you. It’s a beautiful tree. I told Castor we should plant a tree for each of the heroes of the Fifth Blight, as you pass on, to make sure the world never forgets. It may be a Dalish tradition, but the one who killed the Archdemon was Dalish, and it’s a good tradition. Velanna approved, too, but said only the Dalish (and Littlefoot) should have dahlamythal. I guess it’s an important Dalish wood.

Say hello to Edelweiss for me. You are missed. Though I risk repeating what you’ve doubtlessly heard from everyone else, you’ll always be welcome here. Always.

Nathaniel Howe, 9:34 Dragon

 

[The handwriting on this letter is large and looping, but not particularly elegant. The seal-wax was used generously, and dripped down the envelope.]

Vir’era,

Castor has some plan he won’t tell me full of right now, but prepare yourself for—something. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s because of your letter; Vigil’s Keep has been quiet the last few weeks, and there’s nothing of note which would change that except your letter. I think he may even plan to send a convoy to Kirkwall to voice his displeasure. I know he was talking with Carver about the general situation there and the Knight-Commander’s reputation.

Leliana is here and sang the Dalish mourning song for Littlefoot when we planted his tree. It was beautiful. We planted it in the evening, and the sun hit every leaf with golden light. It was a good sign. I don’t think anything bad will happen to that tree—and we certainly won’t allow such.

I have told Leliana what you have endured through the years in Kirkwall, and Castor shared with her your reports. She is very angry on your behalf—on behalf of all mages. She has felt our plight dearly since agreeing to be my lover, and while I don’t know all she does now in the Chantry, I know she has the ears of many with great power. I have hope that things will change for the better in the years to come.

She told me there are few who hear anything beyond what the Templars from Kirkwall report, so there is no one to take the side of the mages, and all that the Chantry usually hears of is blood magic and fear. She may write to you herself, I think, sometime soon—perhaps after she has returned to Valence, where she works with Mother Dorothea. I’ve met Dorothea; she is a kind woman, and very intelligent. Your experience will not go unnoticed.

Be safe.

Warden-Constable Neria Surana, 9:34 Dragon

 

[End letters.]

 

About a month after my ill-timed but probably inevitable explosion at the Knight-Commander, I was once again in the clinic, tending to patients. Cynthia, who didn’t know the details of what had happened, but knew things had taken a turn for the worse if only from the scar on my face, began to spend some days in the clinic instead of at the Chantry, when her father would allow it.

He allowed it more often than I thought, though when Anders (ever bolder than I) asked why, he said that a man in the Chantry had said she would be as safe here as there. He didn’t specify who, but I suspected it was Sebastian’s doing. He knew I got along with Cynthia, after all, and having her around did ease the pain.

I began to teach her how to make potions and poultices. I stuck to the easy things, like simple elfroot potions, because she was still young, and there would be no good that could come of her accidentally poisoning herself in a place where she was meant to be safe.

Her father seemed to like it, anyway. He said it was a useful skill, and that she did well—which were both true. If she had nothing else she could do with her life, she could at least sell potions. There was never really an overabundance of them, after all, and any potions master would prefer a student that already has some skill over one entirely new to the study.

So it was that Cynthia and I were sitting by a bubbling cauldron, in the midst of a lesson on how to tell royal elfroot from the standard variety (difficult when no royal elfroot was on hand), when three of the people I had least expected to see that day opened the door to the clinic.

Castor, Darrien, and Carver, all wearing their Grey Warden uniforms, frowned around the room until they saw me. Anders, sitting near the back with a patient, looked about ready to bolt. But Castor gave him only a brief nod before turning his full attention to me. “Hey, Vee,” Castor said, one corner of his lips turning up. “Been a while.”

A moment passed wherein the only sound to be heard was the potion over the fire as it boiled away. I blinked, and when the men in front of me didn’t disappear, I laughed. “Why didn’t you warn me? I would have… Well, I don’t know what I’d’ve done. Something.”

“And miss the surprised look on your face? Never!” He walked over, Darrien and Carver following behind, and I stood to greet them.

“What’s the occasion, then?” I asked. I hadn’t heard anything of darkspawn in the area for a while, and though I’d explained the previous month’s ‘incident’ to Castor in my last letter, I thought I had also made it clear that I had it effectively handled. Well, the Hawkes did, anyway, by giving myself and Anders a sort of asylum in their home.

(I had been surprised when the Knight-Commander did not immediately come down hard on us, but the longer the silence lasted, the more worried I became.)

But the smile that creeped up Castor’s face proved my written words insufficient. He was out for blood, or at least for a sense of Full Superiority, and he was not going to take no for an answer. He was very much like his sister in that way. “I’ve business in the area,” he said to me, “and I would appreciate your attendance. It would seem it is beyond time for me to meet the Knight-Commander in person. After all, we’ve space and people enough in common.”

A protest began to form in my mouth, but Anders cut me off. “And you’re—just going to march in there and—what, exactly?”

“Well,” Castor mused, stroking his jaw, “I was thinking I’d start by reminding her that she has no jurisdiction over Grey Wardens—runaway or not, mage or not—and take it from there. She and I are of equal rank, so I’ve hope we can come to an agreeable solution for both parties.”

And, though the words went unsaid, he wants to remind her that he has power she does not, that I am his to order and reprimand, and that Anders, similarly, is his to judge. I doubted Meredith would be pleased.

But I was eager. A smile broke my face, and I stood, brushing my armor of the dirt and dust which had settled on it. “Anders, would you mind continuing Cynthia’s lesson?”

“Be careful,” he said, but walked over to take my place.

“Will you be alright?” Cynthia asked, her words very quiet. She didn’t stand, though.

I bent down to look her in the eye. “I promise I will. This is Warden-Commander Castor Cousland, my Commander, and with him are Wardens Darrien Tabris and Carver Hawke.”

“Hawke?” she echoed, glancing at the tallest of the three. He gave an awkward smile, and she must have seen something of his siblings in it, because she nodded. “Okay. If there’s a Hawke with you, you’ll be okay.”

“A Hawke and two of the Heroes of the Fifth Blight,” I said. “I’d be safer with no one else.”

As we left the clinic, I heard Darrien say to Carver, “Either your reputation precedes you, or your siblings are even better than you.” He just grumbled in reply.


	19. Chin Up, Shoulders Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCk
> 
> okay i am SORRY AS HELL that this is coming late today and that it's still a slightly shorter chapter. the universe has been conspiring against me this month, i swear.
> 
> that said, i think it's actually at least a mostly decent chapter (the previous chapters have been... fairly shit quality i'm sorry), so. hope you all enjoy. if all goes well i'll have regular updates again soon. but please be prepared and patient in case i have to do small things for a while over in missing moments.
> 
> thank you

Castor was silent for the entirety of our walk to the Gallows. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, what sort of overtures he planned on making or threats he intended to use, but I couldn’t find the right words. Carver distracted me, asking about his siblings and their friends, after his mother and his uncle, trying to get a better idea of what was happening than what they said in their letters.

Precisely how I answered his questions, I can’t recall, but he seemed satisfied enough. The people of Kirkwall stared openly as we passed; though my presence had become a simple fact of life in the last three years, a larger group of Wardens was still a novelty. Adding to the newness, Carver towered over just about everyone, and Castor’s hair was always such a bright red that it garnered attention of its own. Darrien managed to be less conspicuous, but that was likely because elves wielding greatswords weren’t entirely uncommon to the area.

The ferryman asked no questions when he saw me with the others. He steeled his face and nodded curtly, gesturing us onto the boat and casting off.

As soon as the Templars standing guard near the main entrance realized who was approaching, they sprang into motion. One called out to someone in the Gallows and the other drew his sword. He did not adopt a defensive position, nor an offensive one. He simply drew the sword and held it at his side. I set my jaw and kept my eyes straight ahead.

Meredith met us in the courtyard. Rather, as we walked across the courtyard, she stood at the top of the stairs, eyes following our every move. Though I tasted copper at the back of my mouth, I moved my feet steadily. “Stop,” Meredith commanded as we drew near the base of the stairs. “I am Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard of Kirkwall. State your business.”

In other words: Who are you, and what do you want?

“I am Warden-Commander Castor Cousland of Vigil’s Keep and Arl of Amaranthine. With me are Warden Darrien Tabris, Hero of the Fifth Blight; Warden Carver Hawke; and Warden Vir’era Sabrae, also a Hero of the Fifth Blight,” Castor declared, his voice loud enough to carry across the entirety of the Gallows, but soft enough to sound respectful still.

Murmurs followed his words, and though he had not called himself a Hero of the Fifth Blight as he had done for myself and Darrien, I didn’t doubt that everyone here knew of him. I could not see his face, but I gathered from Meredith’s sour expression that he was being his usual charming self—which was to say, quite charming indeed. “I have come to discuss a recent ordeal involving Warden Vir’era. His last report troubled me.”

Meredith made no comment, but Cullen, who stood beside her, shifted enough to glance between Castor, Meredith, and me. I tried to catch his eye, to glean some knowledge of just what had been happening here in the Gallows while I was with the Hawkes and my clan, but he revealed nothing, though his discomfort was obvious.

After a tense moment, when she discovered that Castor would not, in fact, be intimidated by simple staring, Meredith gestured for us to follow her. “In my office, then,” she said.

Castor waited for no further instruction, which was good, since Meredith gave none, and immediately began walking up the steps to follow her. Carver and I jolted into movement after a shocked second, but Darrien just wandered along after Castor. From the easy way he did it, I began to think this kind of meeting was not entirely unusual for our Warden-Commander.

Cullen glanced at me exactly once on the walk to the Knight-Commander’s office, and I still could not discern what he was thinking. Exactly why I expected to, I couldn’t say, but we’d talked in the past, and until I moved so overtly against Meredith, I’d thought he was opening up to me. Was it because of the blood mages, because I had been exposed so directly to them? Or because I had so readily condemned Meredith?

“Speak your mind, Warden-Commander,” Meredith said as soon as we’d all filed in and her doors were shut tight from the outside world.

“Warden Vir’era has been living in Kirkwall for three years now,” Castor started, eyes steady on hers, “for reasons that I cannot disclose. Until recently, I had believed his presence was… tolerated, if not appreciated as it should be, given that he did contribute greatly to saving all of Thedas not four years ago, and that he volunteered to come here.”

I kept my face as impenetrable as I could. Even if I was personally terrible at lying (or, at least, at coming up with plausible lies), I could probably keep myself from giving away any of Castor’s. Since I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of game Castor intended on playing, which cards he would lay down to prove his point to Meredith, I could say nothing.

Castor tilted his head slightly to the side, and I could remember his bicolored gaze well enough to know it was unsettling when he wished it—and right now, he certainly did. “But in his last reports, I found this may not be the case at all. Tell me, Knight-Commander, under whose authority did you bring in my Warden against his will to teach your Templars?”

“Under my own,” Meredith answered, crossing her arms. “As a Knight-Commander, it is my duty to watch all the mages in my city, and a right to ask them to perform services for the greater good. Your Warden may not be part of any Circle, but he is a mage.”

“You are misinformed, then,” Castor said. He turned to Darrien with a smile. “Darrien, do you have the book?”

Smoothly, Darrien pulled an old, leather-bound tome from the pack I hadn’t even noticed him carrying and handed it to Castor. For the benefit of those not in the know (which was apparently everyone except them), he said, “The Rights and Code of the Grey Wardens.”

“Thank you.” Castor dropped the tome onto Meredith’s desk and opened it, not bothering to ask for permission. “Now, Knight-Commander, I would like to draw your attention to this passage, wherein the rights of the Grey Wardens with regards to mages are outlined. As you can see, once a mage is a Warden, it is that which comes before all else—even the Chantry and Templars cannot judge a Warden mage, or ask services of them, unless the mage’s Warden-Commander deems it appropriate.”

He smirked at her. “And I have not done any such thing, nor has Warden Vir’era done anything to warrant judgement of the sort you might dole out.”

“It was agreed that he would report anything of note to me,” Meredith said, determined still, though I could not discern what she had planned. If she had anything planned. (She must have.) “Yet I was not informed of your runaway, also a mage, living and working with Warden Vir’era in my city. This should have been reported.”

“Any reports given to you were superfluous and done purely of Vir’era’s own will,” said Castor, words slightly flat and almost bored. “As you may know, Grey Wardens are beholden to no country or laws but our own, as was agreed by all of Thedas upon our inception, to aid us in our duty. No Warden is required to submit reports to any but their own Commanders. You are not Vir’era’s Commander; while he may have agreed to report to you for your own satisfaction, he would have been within his rights to refuse. He need never have let you know he was here, if he did not so wish.”

Meredith’s jaw worked, like she was grinding her teeth to come up with something. But no matter how prepared she was, Castor was Capella’s twin, and never was it more obvious than when he put his mind to proving something. It just happened that this time he was proving my point. I wasn’t certain exactly how much of what he was saying was true—some of it was surely bullshit, I thought, though it all sounded logical enough—but he was convincing, and the Grey Wardens were secretive.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Cullen shifting. He didn’t reach for his weapon, nor did he speak up, but he moved his weight. I didn’t dare move nearly so much. I was careful not to lock my knees, knowing the danger of fainting should I do that, but I did not allow myself to fidget the way I was desperate to, the way Cullen was. Surely fidgeting would seem guilty.

“Tell me, Warden-Commander,” Meredith intoned, uncrossing her arms to clasp them behind her back. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingers, in my toes, in the tip of my tongue. “Has your Warden shared with you his secret?”

I had many secrets—or so it seemed to me at the time. My heartbeat extended to my lips. Castor just raised an eyebrow, otherwise entirely unimpressed. “You’ll have to be specific. Many Wardens have a fair number of secrets. It’s part of the job, you could say.”

Meredith’s eyes cut to me, but she did not back down from Castor’s obviously lackadaisical attitude towards the idea that I might not tell him everything. “I do not know that Vir’era is precisely who you think he is.”

How could she know? Had someone—my journal—but it was safe, in a locked box with my clan now. Perhaps she knew more of myself than I did—perhaps she knew where I came from. I wanted to ask. Castor’s voice stopped me. “Vir’era, do tell us who you are.”

I swallowed but said, “I am Vir’era, First to Clan Sabrae and a Grey Warden of Ferelden, Champion of Redcliffe and Hero of the Fifth Blight.” Those were all the titles I carried. They were what I was, who I was, to the shemlen in this room.

“Well, that sounds about accurate to me.” Castor gestured at Meredith. “We could maybe add things like ‘mage’ or ‘shapeshifter’ to the list, and I know he’s learned a great deal about healing, so ‘healer’ might also apply, but if you disagree with what’s been said, please, do tell us what it is you think is missing or wrong.”

“You do not think it dangerous to allow a known shapeshifter in your ranks?” Meredith asked, avoiding Castor’s order.

“It has not proven to be yet. Not for us, anyway—the darkspawn might have a different opinion, of course.” I could hear the smirk doubtlessly on his face through his words.

She narrowed her eyes again, then looked at Cullen. “Cleanse the area. Let us be certain there are no tricks at play.”

Castor started to interrupt, probably to try and stop it, but Cullen lifted his hand and Cleansed the room before he could. I wobbled at the feeling, losing energy and mana quickly. Someone gripped my elbows, keeping me upright—when I looked up, it was Carver, his face pulled into distinct displeasure.

Slamming the desk with an open palm, Castor brought attention back to himself. “That was unnecessary!” he shouted. “Unnecessary, uncalled for, and careless!”

Meredith glared down at him, but did not flinch from his rage. “And how can else could I trust this? I have only your Warden’s word that shapeshifting does not extend to mimicking another person’s appearance. I have learned the hard way that it does not do to trust a mage implicitly, Warden-Commander, lest they take advantage. I cannot allow any to play the exception to this, not even a Grey Warden.”

Darrien snarled, and Castor righted himself. “You would do well to remember he is not your responsibility nor your jurisdiction, as we just discussed.”

“Perhaps he is not,” and the way she emphasized the pronoun caught my attention; she lifted it in tone just slightly, just enough—something was not right there, “but the safety of Kirkwall is, and you would do well to remember that. I have every right to ensure I have not been fooled, do I not?”

This time it was Castor pursing his lips. I swallowed down a bundle of nerves. It was not often I saw Castor so off-balance, and I started to think that perhaps I had underestimated Meredith. Perhaps we all had. “Say what you mean to say,” Castor demanded.

“Very well,” she answered, pulling herself up to the tallest height she reached. It was less than Castor himself, less than Cullen, and certainly less than Carver, but sheer force of will seemed to project her posture far beyond the heights of the three human men. “I suspect Vir’era Sabrae has been lying to you, Warden-Commander.”

“How so?” To his credit, Castor didn’t even glance at me, didn’t indicate for a second that he had any doubts about who and what I was. Meredith stared intently at him, obviously noting this, but doing nothing of it.

“When he was brought to the Gallows for emergency healing by Malia Hawke and her… friends, our healers had a great deal of work to do to save Vir’era’s life.” She inclined her head ever so slightly. “In the process, they discovered something quite shocking: he is, in fact, a woman.”

I went entirely stiff. My knees locked, my teeth ground against each other, and my breath froze in my lungs. Four years—four careful years, wherein Capella, Sten, and Nathaniel were the only ones that I was certain had known I was what I was, and this is how it ended. All because of blood mages. First they took Littlefoot from me—now they would take this, too?

My stomach roiled.

Castor let out a long breath—not quite a sigh, more a simple release of air. For a moment, it was the only sound in the room. Even Cullen dared not shift. Then, Darrien coughed, and Castor began to laugh. Wide-eyed, I looked over at them, and caught sight of Carver dragging a hand down his face. Darrien rubbed the back of his neck as we waited for Castor to finish laughing.

Cullen began to shift again, and Meredith crossed her arms. “I fail to see what about this is so amusing,” she said. “You have been operating under false pretenses—what other lies do you think your so-called Warden is hiding?”

“Maker preserve me,” Castor answered, still grinning widely. He shook his head slowly. “You almost had me worried! See, I know Vir’era isn’t very good at lying most of the time, but—Maferath’s balls, I almost thought he had learned!”

I started to breathe again, shallowly. My knees were still locked.

“Now, look, I won’t go into detail, because there’s frankly no need for such a thing—this is all ridiculous anyway—but the point is, whatever configuration Vir’era’s body might or might not have, as the case may be,” Castor said, slapping a hand to my shoulder and unlocking my knees by the force of it, “he has always been as much a man as—well, as any of us, except perhaps you, given that you do not call yourself such.”

“I do not understand,” began Meredith, but Castor waved a hand and cut her off. Cullen was staring owlishly at everything, eyes glancing back and forth from Meredith to Castor to me, occasionally breaking off to Darrien or Carver.

“Vir’era is a man because he says he is a man.” The hand on my shoulder squeezed and shook me a bit. “Now, unless that has changed…” He looked to me and raised his eyebrows.

“No,” I whispered.

“Still a man, then,” said Castor. He shrugged. “It’s fairly simple, really.”

Frankly, I was stunned. That Castor might know was not terribly shocking—even if Capella hadn’t told him (which I considered but did not suspect), he was easily as clever as she was of his own accord, and could very well have drawn the same conclusions. That, or he’d heard of the aqun-athlok from Sten, which was quite possible, since they’d had many conversations to satisfy Castor’s seemingly endless curiosity, and Sten may not have realized I wished for it to be a secret.

What was more shocking was how quickly and seamlessly he shrugged the notion off from being anything other than perfectly acceptable. Thedas as a whole was not nearly this accepting, with a mild exception for the Qunari (and even that was questionable, but a discussion for a different time). Additionally, neither Darrien nor Carver seemed extremely surprised or upset by this information.

Darrien may have been told by Castor—I rather expected as much, honestly—but Carver… Well, he did seem surprised, but usually he was rather more vocal about his shock with anything. Perhaps he’d had his suspicions as well. Perhaps he’d seen enough in the Wardens’ service to simply not care.

Cullen and Meredith stared. They seemed about as shocked as me. It was clear that Cullen had been told about me (possibly others had, too, but I didn’t linger on that), and now the odd looks and uncomfortable twitches made more sense, but where Meredith looked somewhere in the realm of furious, Cullen was again unreadable for the first moments.

I doubted he’d ever interacted with or even heard of another like me; those who did not identify with their societally-assigned gender were not common, and even less so in societies that did not know of or accept our existence on the whole. I was his first.

But when he looked at me, he did not look disgusted, did not look angry, did not look more than mildly confused. Mostly, in fact, he looked relieved.

“So you knew,” Meredith said, at last.

Castor smirked at her, free hand going to rest on his hip. “I did. And it was never a concern. He is who he has always been, whether or not you are able to comprehend it. Since you do not have an actual reason for me to punish Vir’era—unless there is something else you wish to address?” Meredith remained silent, though her fingers did clench where she had crossed her arms. “In that case, I am formally reminding you, once more, that any reports Vir’era may submit to you are beyond what is required of him, so if he chooses not to submit any after this meeting, he is within his rights as a Grey Warden.

“Furthermore, if you wish at any point to take action against Vir’era or against Anders, whose presence I have not forgotten, though he is officially still a runaway, you must first clear it with me. You may detain them if and only if you truly believe they are an immediate danger to the safety of Kirkwall. Since they currently are running a healer’s clinic for free, though, I highly doubt such a time will come. Otherwise, send word to me, and I will reply with as much haste as I am able.

“And finally…” Castor said, picking up the book he’d placed on Meredith’s desk earlier. “The details of this conversation with regards to Vir’era’s person beyond his duties as a Grey Warden should remain confidential. You are to continue referring to and treating him as you had before invading his privacy—actually, treat him more respectfully, as a Grey Warden of his caliber should be. Whatever else he may be, he is also a war hero. Do remember that.”

He inclined his head and gestured out of the room. Darrien led the way; I noticed, as we exited, that Castor did not shut the door behind him, nor did he ask any of us to do so. I had the distinct feeling that Meredith and Cullen were watching us leave with no small amount of upset.

I wasn’t certain I entirely deserved all the special attention that Castor seemed to be demanding. Some of it, sure. I was a Grey Warden, after all, and I had helped to defeat the Fifth Blight, as he had repeated several times over today. But my part in that was small, and I’d done little of consequence since. Other, that is, than making a nuisance of myself in Kirkwall.

But I would not say no. Castor could demand five miles; Meredith might deign to give three.

We were not stopped on our way out. We were not followed. In all likelihood, Meredith thought doing as much would not benefit her. Whatever plans she’d made through the last few weeks had, it seemed in that moment, depended entirely on revealing me to be, as she had assumed, a woman.

To her consternation, I was not a woman. I was aqun-athlok. And all who mattered to me—any who knew, they all accepted this, accepted me. Meredith didn’t matter. I wanted to laugh and whoop and throw my hands into the air for the sheer delight that came with this realization. So very little had been good in my life lately, but this was. This was.

A grin pulled my lips up, and I couldn’t stop it. Not that I tried very hard. The ferryman stared for a moment. I almost laughed in response. Darrien bumped my shoulder with his, and I turned the smile on him. He returned it.

 

By the time we returned to the clinic, at most three hours after having left it, the entire Kirkwall crew had somehow managed to assemble within its confines. Garrett was puttering around helping Anders with patients, and Merrill was doing much the same. Malia and Varric had enlisted Isabela’s help to recount some recent adventure—something I’d likely missed while with Clan Sabrae—and Fenris and Aveline were talking seriously with Sebastian off to the side.

The entire room paused when we Wardens walked in. Cynthia, still by the fire (but bottling and labeling potions now), was the first one to react. “You’re back!” she said.

“I’m back,” I agreed.

This set everyone into a flurry of motion. Malia and Garrett all but ran up to Carver, grabbing at him and teasing him for his uniform while also subtly checking in on him. Isabela greeted Castor with delight, saying something or another about her ‘almost apprentice’ and wanting to duel him, to which he responded enthusiastically, drawing Varric’s attention. Merrill was swept up in Isabela’s excitement.

Fenris, Sebastian, and Aveline all concentrated on me, not so subtly looking me over to ensure I was as whole now as when I’d left. Only Anders stood back, continuing to concentrate on his patients and ignoring the presence of his ex-Commander. I noticed Darrien sidling up to him, and figured they’d be fine. Darrien had never been much of one to pressure people into things they didn’t want to do.

“What happened?” Aveline asked me, frowning and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Anders sent someone to fetch Garrett after you left, but he didn’t give much by way of detail. He just said that your Warden-Commander had come and taken you to see Meredith.”

“Aye, and then Garrett told Malia, and she rounded everyone up. Just in case, she told us,” said Sebastian. He smiled, and I tried not to react too obviously to it. “I am glad you’re alright, though.”

I glanced at Castor, but he was wrapped up in talk with Isabela. Somehow, I thought this may have been intentional. Some kind of way to keep me from feeling too crowded, or something. It was working, and I was grateful. “Meredith thought I was lying about who I am,” I said, “because I’m a shapeshifter.”

“But you said shapeshifters can’t take the forms of other people,” Aveline protested.

“We can’t.” I shrugged and tugged a bit at my sleeves. “She just—she didn’t believe me. And it’s not like—there aren’t that many shapeshifters in the world. I know of only three, myself included, so… So I guess it makes sense, at least a bit.”

“So you explained this to her, then?” Sebastian asked. “The Knight-Commander can be… strict, but she did earn her title.” I gave him a very flat look. He winced a bit. “Garrett and Malia have given some credit to Anders’ stories of what she has allowed to happen to mages under her command, but if she were truly acting against the Maker’s will… Ah, but this isn’t the time for that.”

“Indeed not,” Fenris said. He peered at my face carefully, like he was going to be able to see any lies I may try to tell. “You are alright?”

“I am,” I reassured. “It—there was a—Meredith knows, um, something she—that I’d rather she wouldn’t, but…” I shrugged. “Castor helped. I’m… I’m okay. I won’t—she shouldn’t bother me too much, now, unless it’s actually necessary.”

They didn’t ask what I meant by that. I think they all knew, even though I hadn’t told them. Malia was rather terrible at lying to her friends. Worse at lying about things that upset her.

It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know they were all so concerned for me.

“Castor,” Aveline said, after a moment, when it became apparent that I had little else to say on the subject of what had just happened. “He’s your Warden-Commander, correct? One of the other Heroes of the Fifth Blight?”

“Yes,” I answered, and gestured in his direction. “He’s the redhead.”

All three looked over to him. Like he’d predicted their gazes, Castor glanced up and sent over one of his most handsome smiles. “He’s shorter than I expected,” Aveline observed.

“Aye. The stories make him sound ten feet tall,” Sebastian said.

Fenris looked back to me. “Who is speaking with Anders?”

“That’s Darrien,” I said. “Another from our party during the Blight. I think he’s officially a senior Warden now. He’s also Castor’s lover.” The comment was met with generic hums of acknowledgement. Sebastian seemed a bit surprised, and glanced between the two as if there might be some kind of sign even when they stood at different parts of the room, but didn’t look upset. A little silence fell.

Then Cynthia came up to me, and gave me a hug. “I’m glad you’re alright. When Anders asked me to go get Serah Hawke, I thought it would be bad,” she said.

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” I told her as she pulled back. “Everything is fine now. We just had to speak with the Knight-Commander, that’s all. She was reasonable about it.”

Over Cynthia’s head, Aveline narrowed her eyes at me, but I pretended not to notice. Cynthia was still young. I could put on a brave face and pretend Meredith was nicer for her. I didn’t want her to worry.


	20. trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. it would seem. that i forgot to upload last week? i mean. i didn't have a chapter or anything ready so. it's. it's not like much would've een different but. wow, i'm sorry.
> 
> uh, to follow 'wow erik you dummy' news with 'gawddamn erik' news, i'm going to need to do biweekly updates for a while. it will be biweekly chapter updates with some sporadic missing moments or something in between. i'm going to start a Codex, specifically for non-canon things (or canon things that don't have codex entries which i want to have it for the context of twots). if there are specific characters/items you want to see sooner codexed, just, like. lemme know.

Castor, Darrien, and Carver stayed at the Hawke estate, mostly from the elder siblings’ insistence. Castor didn’t put up much of a fight, though, making only the appropriate brief protests before acquiescing gracefully. He didn’t seem to have any further business in Kirkwall or anywhere else in the Free Marches, but he insisted on staying longer regardless.

Leandra certainly didn’t seem to mind; if anything, she was almost delighted by the intrusion upon her household. Maybe it was because Castor had brought Carver with him (which couldn’t have been anything less than intentional); maybe it was because Castor and Darrien were heroes. Castor was the queen of Ferelden’s brother, too.

He willingly traded stories with Varric. Darrien and Fenris sparred. Carver spent a good portion of each day reassuring his mother that he really was fine, and that he liked it being a Grey Warden.

More mail came for me, from farther and farther away. About a week from my meeting with Meredith, a letter from Mia arrived. By chance or by fate, or perhaps some strange mix of the two, that was also the day that Cullen decided to search me out.

I hadn’t seen him since Castor had demanded Meredith leave me alone. Not that I’d expected to; as Knight-Captain, he rarely left the Gallows, and I’d been deliberately avoiding going anywhere near that place. Even the sight of it made my breath short.

It was after lunch, when Malia or Garrett (or both) had taken to coming down to the clinic to ensure Anders and I ate. Castor usually accompanied them, since he was here. His presence did wonderful things to the refugees still stuck in Darktown, and he offered a place in Vigil’s Keep to any willing to take on the mantle of Grey Warden. (Very few were willing, and even fewer able, but even knowing he would offer it, would offer to take them back to Amaranthine and train them, seemed to bring light to many weary faces.)

Not long after Castor took his leave, being the last to do so, whispers could be heard exploding down the corridors of Darktown. A young boy burst into the clinic with wide eyes. “The Knight-Captain’s coming!” he exclaimed. “He says he don’t want trouble, an’ he’s here jus’ for himself, but I was told I gotta run an’ tell you, Wardens.”

“Thank you,” I said. I had no idea why Cullen might be coming here, or what he intended to do, though I didn’t worry overmuch yet. Cullen didn’t worry me the way Meredith did, the way even many of the other Kirkwall Templars did. He was a good man, if a scared one.

Besides, Malia had brought Mia’s letter with lunch, and now I wouldn’t have to find some way of getting notice to Cullen myself that his sister had gotten it in her head to come visit. It was a relief, really.

I glanced over at Anders, whose lips were thin and fingers white as they clenched around his staff, but he met my eyes. I smiled, a somewhat unimpressive attempt to soothe him. He narrowed his eyes at me and huffed, but turned resolutely and stiffly back to his patient without comment. Probably the closest Cullen would get to permission from him, even if he wasn’t there to see it, to know what had happened.

It took a full three minutes for Cullen to arrive after that. Had I not been counting the time for the antidote potion I was stirring, I may not have known, though those minutes did seem to stretch longer than usual with Anders’ fierce animosity leashed so tightly nearby.

Cullen knocked on the open door somewhat needlessly; his armor was loud enough to announce his presence as soon as he was within hearing distance, if only because so very few armored people ever visited Darktown. I glanced up from my potion long enough to give him a neutral nod of acknowledgement, unable to pause in the process just yet.

He seemed to understand, and though he moved in further to stand a couple meters away from me, he waited to address me until I doused the flames and began to bottle the antidote in clean bottles. “I apologize if this is a bad time,” he said, the words obviously practiced, “but I was hoping I could speak with you, Vir’era. In private, if possible.”

I pulled my lips into what I hoped was a pleasant, mild smile as I finished my task. A brief flash of blue flickered in my peripheral vision, but I determinedly did not react. Anders said my name in a quiet way, simultaneously pleading and warning, and I only heard the undertones of Justice’s echo because I knew to listen for them. “Of course, Cullen,” I answered placidly. “I’m afraid there’s little by way of privacy here, but it should…”

“I don’t—you might want to be… where people won’t overhear,” Cullen said, haltingly. He looked me in the eye, and though his face held a very similar expression to its usual steeled resolve, I was able to see he meant to talk to me about… Well, about me. For whatever reason.

“Vir’era…” Anders repeated. Though he managed to keep the glowing down, the echo was louder, enough that I started to worry Cullen may hear it and understand what it meant. Of all people, Cullen would know.

I took a deep breath and looked at Anders, meeting his eyes and holding a brief, silent competition of wills. As I did so, I addressed Cullen. “There is a cellar nearby which will work, then. It belongs to the Hawkes, who have kindly offered me a room in their home.” Anders narrowed his eyes. “I… would ask that you leave your sword here.” Finally, Anders relented, returning his full attention to his patient, who glanced around in obvious worry.

Cullen was already leaning his sword against one of the columns when I looked back at him. “It’s a reasonable request,” he said when he noticed my frown. “Will you leave your staff, too?”

It would be more symbolic than anything else, and we both knew it, but I agreed, and carefully placed Maleficent beside the sword. “Anders will watch both weapons to ensure neither are taken.” A short snort confirmed my statement.

Cullen glanced at Anders only briefly before nodding. As I passed him to lead the way to the cellar, I noticed his jaw was clenched tight, and his eyebrows drawn close. I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was Anders’ presence. He wasn’t exactly an unknown apostate; there were whispers everywhere about the leader of the mage underground, about a man with a vengeance as deep and consuming as an ocean.

We reached the cellar without incident, and after it locked firmly behind me, we sat in a room that Garrett had decided to appropriate for his bizarre collection of trophies. (Moth-eaten scarves, torn trousers, the occasional poison ring… It was beyond me why he picked these things up in the first place, never mind why he kept them.)

Cullen gave the odd trophies a single, confused look, but didn’t ask and didn’t linger, sitting after I had done so. “I—I wanted to apologize,” he said, quickly, not looking at me. “I cannot—I do not claim to understand, but I know enough that—the Knight-Commander was wrong when she… when she accused you of lying.” He huffed, looking for all the world like he wanted to pace and fret, but did not dare move.

“It isn’t the worst she could have done,” I said. “Nor is it the worst she has.”

“Maybe not.” I didn’t dare take that for agreement, knowing he was fiercely loyal to the Templar order. “It was still wrong. And she… She assumed things. I-I asked Orsino, after you left. He had been told first, by the girl who healed you. He told me about others he’d met like you. Not many, he said. But—Meredith didn’t believe it, at first. Might not still. It’s—it’s not exactly common. But Orsino has traveled farther than I have, and has always proven an intelligent and loyal mage, and if he says you are telling the truth, then I am inclined to believe him.”

I didn’t know how to reply. Tears pricked my eyes, not unexpected but still unwanted, and I blinked rapidly in the hopes of deterring them. “Thank you,” I whispered, unable to manage more than that.

Cullen shifted awkwardly, and somehow that was the last straw. I began to cry, covering my face with my hands. “S-sorry,” I blubbered as the tears fell, “I—I don’t—I don’t…”

Cullen shifted again. I couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t see much of anything beyond the haze of tears, and I certainly wouldn’t look at him right now. I tried to wipe them away, tried to regain control of my breathing and voice, but nothing worked. The tears came as fast as I wiped; the harder I tried to control anything, the more it warbled and hitched.

And unlike the first time I’d cried so in front of Cullen, now there was no Littlefoot to hide against. This realization only redoubled the stream of emotion, some mix of relief and grief and unshakeable anxiety that culminated in a shivering, whimpering mess every time. The emotions I’d been burying for the last month, the ones I hadn’t even been aware of, all surged forth in a veritable waterfall of tears.

I covered my face in my hands, embarrassment making the situation worse. But Cullen, much like the last time, was a better person than I estimated. He knelt on the ground in front of me and pulled me into a hug. It wasn’t much of a hug, honestly—his armor was uncomfortably hard, and the angle was all wrong, but the intent was obvious nonetheless.

Though I didn’t move my hands far from my face, I did lean into the offered comfort, allowing him to wrap one arm around me and rub my back gently. Where, exactly, he’d learned this—and why he chose to employ the knowledge for me—I couldn’t be certain. Maybe Mia had taught him. Maybe he’d learned when he was training to be a Templar. It could’ve been a number of places.

“It’s alright,” he said. Like he could sense my question, even through the swell of emotions, he continued, his voice completely steady, “I know it’s not the sort of thing people hope for, and—and it might be out of line to say this, but… You are one of the few mages I do trust, because I know you have not been taken in or tempted by a demon.”

The words, so unexpected, were enough to distract me. Not completely, but enough that I had the confidence to whisper, “Why?”

“Because of this,” he confessed. “Because if you were an abomination, you wouldn’t do this.” His hand clenched against my shoulder, and I tried to look at his face, but he was looking at the far wall. “Abominations do not feel sadness, nor grief, nor anger without completely giving in to the demons.”

I thought of Anders, of Wynne—but they were exceptions, not true abominations, merged with spirits, not demons, and I knew even if I were to tell Cullen of this possibility, he would not accept it. Not now. Besides, he was right, for the most part. Those who did become possessed by demons would have very different reactions to the emotions that rioted in me.

“Thank you,” I said. His trust was one of the most precious gifts I’d been given, even if he was not entirely aware. He didn’t reply verbally, but he did squeeze my shoulders gently, and that was enough.

We stayed still for a while. Not terribly long. Not even long enough to grow stiff or uncomfortable. I pulled back long before that could happen. Cullen didn’t protest. As I used the hem of my sleeve to wipe what remained of the tears from my face, I remembered Mia’s letter.

“Mia sent me a letter,” I announced. Cullen waited. “She said she’s coming to visit. I’d guess she’s long since left and should be nearly here. Perhaps she’s a week away?”

He frowned at me and started to speak, but paused. He opened his mouth again, froze, and closed it. Finally, with a groan, he covered his face and slouched. “Of course she’s coming,” he said. “She won’t be pleased with me.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You’ve done nothing to earn her wrath.”

“I told her Meredith didn’t trust you, and I wasn’t certain what to think. I asked her not to write you until I could get to the bottom of it all.” He lowered his hands and grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“You did what you thought was needed,” I said. I could hardly blame him for that. Caution around mages was something that had been—he couldn’t forget it.

“I shouldn’t have said anything until I knew,” he insisted.

I smiled a little, and it was still watery, but I managed it, and I meant it. “I forgive you.”

The look he gave me was too complex to comprehend with the scant moment that it lasted before he nodded and stood. “Thank you,” he said. “I… should go. I’ll need to speak with Commander Meredith.”

Following his example, I stood, too, and led the way back towards the Darktown exit. “I’ll walk you out. When Mia comes… well, it may be better if I meet her somewhere other than the Gallows, and I know Darktown isn’t exactly, um… It’s Darktown. But I’m living with the Hawkes, now, and Hightown is—nicer.”

He laughed a bit at my hesitation to classify Hightown, but didn’t disagree. “I’ll send word when she arrives.”

 

She arrived four days later. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had headed out right after sending off her letter; while mail certainly tended to travel faster than people, it didn’t travel very fast. Cullen, true to his word, sent a recruit to let me know. The recruit seemed confused when he spoke to me, obviously uncertain why the Knight-Captain would appear to be on friendly terms with someone the Knight-Commander was known to not care for.

“Ah, Warden Vir’era?” he asked, brows furrowed. He glanced around the Darktown clinic with obvious suspicion, but Garrett had pulled Anders away to help him find… something. I wasn’t clear on what.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Knight-Captain Cullen sent me,” he said, standing straight when he met my eyes. “He asked that I tell you that Mia has arrived, and she wants to see you. They’ll be arriving at the Hawke estate soon.”

“Thank you,” I said. He looked to have a question, so I explained, “Mia is a friend of mine as well as his sister.”

He didn’t reply, but he did nod before leaving. I waited until he was out, then took Maleficent and went to the cellar entrance.

I got there with barely enough time to tell Leandra and Bodhan I was expecting Mia—having already informed them days previously that she would visit when she was in Kirkwall—when there was a knocking at the door.

Moments later, Bodhan brought Cullen and a woman who could only have been Mia in to the living room. I had hoped to change out of my armor, which I wore only when in Darktown or anticipating need of it, but there was no time. Instead, I placed Maleficent to rest against the fireplace as Bodhan announced our guests.

I turned with a smile. Mia looked just like her brother—tall, blonde, curly-haired, and a sturdy build. Her skin was tanner, though, and covered in freckles; even at a glance it was obvious she spent a great deal of time outside. More than Cullen, at least, which was hardly surprising. She squinted at me, and I realized that she would have had no idea what I looked like until this very moment. We’d never met in person.

“I’ll just make you some tea, then, shall I?” Bodhan asked, but he didn’t wait for answers before bustling off to the kitchen. Leandra had already left the room, taking Peaches with her to give us some privacy. I was thankful for it.

“Vir’era,” Cullen said, “I’m sorry. I told her we had to wait for the recruit to get back so you’d have warning, but—well, at least you did get notice.”

“I did,” I said. Mia marched over to me then, hands on her hips. She gave me a very long look-over that made me self-conscious before she gathered me into her arms for a crushing hug. Surprised, I laughed.

“You’re shorter than I thought,” she said, the first words I had heard her say. I only barely hugged her back before she was pulling away to hold me at arm’s length and continue her examination. “And bonier. Do you eat enough? You seem to bathe regularly, at least.”

“I’m elvhen,” I reminded her, a bit defensively. “Of course I’m short and bony. I could say you shemlen are all so tall and big. Some more than others.”

“Still!” she said. “There were elves in Honnleath, too, you know, and most of them were not nearly as bony as you.”

Cullen, who had come nearer, sighed. “She won’t let that go until she’s sure you’re eating enough.” I didn’t have it in me to hold it against her, though. I just shook my head a bit and gestured to the couch and chairs.

“Let’s sit, shall we?” I did so first. Mia followed my lead easily, sinking down into the couch and glancing around the room. Cullen came more slowly, sat more stiffly.

As Bodhan came back in with a tea set, Mia hummed a bit. (I thanked Bodhan for the tea, and he waved me off.) “You told me your friends had really made it, but it’s something else to see in person than read on paper. What about you, though? Your last letter said… Well, it said a lot. Are you alright, Vir’era? I know it’s been some time since Littlefoot passed, but…”

It seemed like she wanted to keep talking, keep asking me questions, but Cullen sighed next to her and she paused to give him an unhappy look, then turned back to me expectantly. I wasn’t certain where would be the best to begin. “I’m—I’m alright,” I said, quietly. “I miss Littlefoot every day. He—for almost four years, we were not parted more than a few hours. It hasn’t been an easy transition, but I’m alright.”

The sympathetic look on her face was nice, actually. Varric liked to write about people hating pitying or sympathetic looks sent their way for their losses, but I appreciated it. Mia knew Littlefoot had meant a great deal to me, and she felt my sadness, too. There was no shame in that, no reason to hide such a very kind reaction, no reason to hate it.

I took a cup of tea and mixed sugar into it. “Do—do you two like sugar in your tea?” I asked, not entirely sure how one was meant to be a host. I’d never really had an opportunity before. I felt staggeringly like Merrill.

“Oh, don’t you worry about us. We can fix our own tea. Right, Cullen?” Mia said, giving him a demanding look. He nodded. I thought to protest, to insist on taking over whatever duties were expected of a host, but Mia reached out and began preparing her own tea before I could figure out exactly how to do so.

She put three sugars and only the barest amount of milk in the cup she handed to Cullen. In hers, she put only milk. As she stirred it in, she resumed her questions. “Cullen tells me you two have settled whatever it was that happened between the two of you, but I know better than to just take him at his word. You never take a brother at his word, Vir’era.”

Silently, I disagreed, but she knew Cullen better than me. “We did. It—the Knight-Commander acted hastily, that’s all. Castor—um, the Warden-Commander—he’s here, too, and he—”

“What? The Warden-Commander is here?” she demanded. She turned enough to glare and slap at Cullen. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? What happened?”

“I didn’t get a chance, you kept—” Cullen started, exasperated, but Mia interrupted him.

“Don’t you start!”

“Start _what_ , Mia? You hardly even—”

“That!”

“Maker’s breath, Mia—”

“I said don’t!”

Laughter slipped from me without my permission. I’d never seen this side of Cullen. He was so controlled all the time, so—respected, even, that it seemed almost impossible he could ever be childish. Yet here before me I had proof. All it took was his sister. Maybe that made sense. They were just falling back into the patterns they’d developed when they were both much younger, when they were kids.

Mia made a funny little sound and swirled around in a whirl of curls to stare at me. “You have such a precious laugh!” she said, and I blushed, immediately and instinctively trying to stop it. “No, no, don’t stop! Doesn’t he have a wonderful laugh, Cullen? Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

“I didn’t know,” he answered, but he didn’t disagree. For some reason, that made me laugh.

Mia grinned. “Now, tell me, what brought the Warden-Commander here? Isn’t he supposed to be back in Vigil’s Keep or wherever?”

I hummed. “Normally, yes. He said he has business here, but I’ve not been told what it is. He… spoke with Meredith. It, um—”

“She doesn’t like you, does she?” Mia asked. She squinted at me, too, for good measure.

“Well…”

“She doesn’t,” Cullen confirmed, his brows furrowed. “Even though I’ve vouched for you. I think she was angry with me for that, actually.” I saw his hands clench a bit on the teacup.

“Thank you, Cullen,” I murmured. He nodded and brought the tea up to his lips. I sighed and continued, “I don’t know exactly what Castor was trying to do, but he—confronted her, and now… Supposedly, I’m beyond her reach. I’m—I’m safe, for now.”

Cullen didn’t argue with the way I phrased it, even though I had expected him to. He was a Templar, after all; he was Meredith’s right-hand man. But he remained stoically silent, which was as much a confirmation as anything. Mia noticed it, too. She reached out and took my free hand in hers. “I’m glad.”

“You didn’t need to come all this way,” I told her, abruptly.

“Yes, I did,” she said. “It’s been years since I saw Cullen here, and I’ve never gotten to see you. So when I heard Littlefoot passed, and there was something suspect going on here, I couldn’t stay home and just do nothing. I might be a bit late to do much, but I’m damn well going to do what I can.”

I squeezed her hand. What was I meant to say to something like that?

“Now. I want to see your clinic.”

 

Despite both myself and Cullen trying to dissuade her, Mia refused to take no for an answer, so I ended up leading the two down through the Hawke cellars and into the clinic. Anders and Garrett were there, back already, and tending to a patient. From the blood around them, whatever had happened hadn’t been pleasant.

I turned quickly and stopped Cullen and Mia. “No!” I said, a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary. “There’s—a patient, right now. Um, it’s not a pretty sight.” A mild lie; though I’d had but a glance, I knew that the worst was long since over. Pale pink scar-skin had already been covering whatever Anders was working over.

Cullen’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. He knew I meant to keep them from seeing magic being done by anyone but me. Mia huffed and crossed her arms, obviously about to argue. A voice from inside interrupted her. “Vir’era? Is that you?” Garrett, hands bloody and face pale, came to the door, peering out. “We could use your help.”

Whatever they’d done before this must have been more intense than the treasure hunt I’d been led to believe, if even their combined efforts weren’t enough. Anders didn’t tire easily anymore. Not with Justice. I set my jaw and nodded, sparing but a cursory glance to Cullen and Mia before slipping into the clinic.

Anders was sweating, his hair sticking to his skin. I pushed him gently out of the way, taking over. My mana reserves hadn’t been touched yet that day, and while normally Anders might have argued, he said nothing when Cullen appeared through the door. Instead, he made a face that clearly displayed his displeasure before disappearing to the bucket of water we kept in one corner of the clinic. It wasn’t clean, but it was enough to wipe blood from hands.

I didn’t recognize the woman on the cot. She was alive, but only just. A refugee, from the tattered state of what clothes remained on her. Probably the victim of one of the countless crimes committed by those with less-savory opinions against refugees. It wasn’t unusual.

When I pushed my magic deeper, I realized it was even more than that; she was a mage. I tensed immediately. There was no way for Cullen to know this. Not unless—

“That’s Carolina,” he said. I thought he even sounded concerned.

At the sound of her name, or maybe at Cullen’s voice, Carolina’s eyes fluttered, her breath becoming quick and shallow. He noticed and flinched back. I leaned down and hummed quietly. “Shh, Carolina, you’re safe now. Ara dareth, falon. Ara revas.”

Her breath hiccupped, and I concentrated my magic in her lungs. Something had punctured one—possibly a rib, earlier, before Anders had started healing her. It was almost healed, but if she was going to insist on waking, she would need full use of her lungs. I could feel my face screw up in concentration, but paid no mind to that, paid no mind to anything but Carolina.

“S-ser, no, please,” she whispered, not quite awake yet. “N-no!”

Anders came over again and grabbed her hand. He ignored Cullen, ignored Mia. “Hush, you’re safe now,” he said, much as I had just moments ago. I let his words, the even tone, all wash over me as I let my magic search through Carolina’s body to find and heal the wounds still there. “Alrik isn’t here. You’re with Vir’era and Garrett and me. I’m Anders.”

“A-anders?” she repeated, the name obviously familiar from the relieved sigh that surrounded it. I did not ask how she knew his name.

“And Garrett Hawke and Vir’era Sabrae. You’re in Darktown right now, in our clinic.” Her breathing slowed; her muscles relaxed. My magic was able to flow more easily. “Can you tell me what happened, Carolina?”

He didn’t ask for Cullen to leave, nor Mia. Didn’t rage at Cullen’s presence. Cullen, similarly, remained silent on Anders’ presence. Mia all but faded to the background. I didn’t have more attention to spare this observation, though. Carolina’s insides were still very much a mess. I couldn’t imagine what she’d looked like before Anders got to her. I let their words wash over me as I worked.

“Alrik,” she said. “He saw me.”

“Were you leaving?”

“Yes. I-I couldn’t stay.”

“I understand, Carolina, you don’t have to be scared.”

“He meant to turn me Tranquil. Like Izzie.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t like me. He—he mentioned… a Tranquil solution.”

I sat back. I’d done all I could for Carolina. Anything else was beyond my expertise; I ran the risk of causing as much harm trying to help as if nature simply ran its course. My hands shook slightly when I pulled them away from her, and Garrett pushed a cup of elfroot tea into them. The steam warmed my face, and even the scent alone seemed to rejuvenate me.

Anders glanced at me, but kept his attention on Carolina. “You’re safe now,” he said again, somehow keeping his composure, though I could see his hands straining and his jaw tensing. She nodded and fell into an exhausted sleep—more accurately, perhaps, she passed out.

When it was obvious she would not reawaken immediately, Anders turned his furious gaze to Cullen. “Well?” he demanded, all but snarling. “Don’t you have anything to say, Templar?”

“I’ve never liked Ser Alrik,” Cullen said. I peered at him, but his face was turned away from me, and his voice too quiet to hear any emotion. “There have been… rumors about his solution. It’s madness.”

“Oh, is that all?” Anders asked. The words burned the air like acid. “No comment on how he nearly killed this woman—how he would have, if I hadn’t been nearby? On those he has apparently made Tranquil already, including Izzie?”

Cullen didn’t so much as twitch. “I will ask the Knight-Commander about the new Tranquil, but unless you want to be discovered, I can do nothing else.”

I thought I misheard him. “You—”

He looked at me. His face was dark, his eyes deep and unfathomably haunted. “I will say nothing of this incident. It’s obvious Carolina needed the help, and I know enough of Ser Alrik that she would not have gotten it had she stayed in the Circle.” His eyes dropped down to look at Carolina’s sleeping face. What was he thinking? “She has always been a good person.”

_She has always been a good person._

A good _person_. Not mage.

The word echoed in my mind, and were it not for the tea in my hands, I may have forgotten myself enough to hug him. Whatever had happened lately—whatever he thought of me, of other mages—something was healing the wounds from Ferelden.

Even Anders did not argue.


	21. kumbaya and all that basically

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, let me just say thank you thank you thank you to everyone, for being kind and patient with me and understanding that i had to adjust to a slower update schedule. i hope you'll all continue to enjoy this!
> 
> also, i thought you guys could use a nice happy chapter after like. a lot of not so happy chapters? so this is mostly filler, but covers a couple minor things that i'll be drawing on later, so. enjoy! hopefully!

Among the things that Mia asked to do during her stay was visiting my clan. I saw no reason to dissuade her of this, and Cullen did not stop me from taking her along when I left to see them on the weekend. (As the First, it was not in my best interests to spend too long without visiting—so I had resolved to make as many trips as I could.) I wanted to fly, to test the owl shape I’d gained from watching Revas, but did not dare do so when traveling with Mia, in case raiders or Tal-Vashoth thought to attack.

They did not, thankfully. We had little of great value, at any rate; I’d taken to using a spell Merrill taught me to shrink my staff when I wasn’t using it, turning it to little more than a small obsidian rod, so Maleficent drew no attention, and even my silverite Grey Warden armor had obviously seen better days.

(Mia had tutted when she saw that I had to pull the straps to their tightest to keep the chest piece from flopping around. I had admitted, then, that I used to be less thin. Real, proper meals in Darktown were scarce. But Bodhan was doing his damnedest to fatten myself and Anders back up, and Leandra was helping.)

Mia didn’t complain of the difficult trek or steep mountain trails. She didn’t complain about the temperature or the idea of sleeping surrounded by elves that would be far from welcoming. She didn’t complain about anything. Hopefully, it meant that she truly was unbothered by it all, and not that she was trying to spare me. I’d traveled with plenty of complainers; it no longer bothered me.

Mheganni all but melted from the trees when we drew close, startling Mia enough that she jumped. “Who’s this?” the archer asked.

“Mia Rutherford,” I said. “She’s my friend; I’ve mentioned her before. She was curious of our clan, so I thought to introduce her to you and a few others, if it’s no trouble.” Mheganni didn’t protest, so I assumed it was alright. That said, she also was obviously not particularly enthused by the idea. “Mia, this is Mheganni.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, serah,” Mia said. Mheganni clenched her jaw but nodded, and Mia glanced between the two of us. “Should I not say serah? What’s the right way for greeting a person in Elvish?”

“Serah is a shem term.” Mheganni’s words were short, though not overtly antagonistic. They definitely weren’t welcoming.

“What Mheganni means to say,” I interpreted, hoping to keep them from fighting, “is that, while we understand its meaning and know it to be respectful in sh—human cultures, it holds no significance for us beyond that. Mostly, we do not use titles for those close in age and wisdom. Just for hahrens and the Keeper.”

Since I’d mentioned hahrens before, and their place in Dalish culture, Mia just nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, then. I don’t want to cause trouble. And you can take me back to the city any time if you need to. I understand, you know. Humans haven’t exactly had the best of relationships with any kind of elves.”

“It’ll be fine,” I insisted, but I wasn’t really that certain. Still, she was being respectful and kind about it all, and had been a good friend to me through the years, even if only through writing. I wanted to share this with her. Mheganni shrugged and nodded in the same movement, an obvious deference to my judgement.

“Well, if that changes at any point, I’ll understand. Just so you’re aware. It’s important that you know.” She nodded firmly in emphasis, and I smiled at her with gratitude. We began the final climb then, finding a wider path where the hunters’ feet had beaten the ground back to dirt leading to the main camp’s entrance.

We paused to greet the hunters standing near the statues of Fen’Harel, and they were far more accommodating than Mheganni. I had begun to expect as much, though. Mheganni, despite the fact that she traveled to Kirkwall most often (or perhaps because of it), held some sort of very deep-seated resentment for humans. I could only guess that it had to do with her loss of Tamlen, Theron, and Merrill (even if Merrill was close enough to visit).

Mia admired the statues. “What are the wolves for?” she asked.

“They represent Fen’Harel,” I answered. “The Dread Wolf. I’ve told you before he is a trickster, but even so, he does generally protect the People—if often in ways we could not predict. We place his statues at the entrance to our camps to protect us. He must always face out.”

“Like he’s watching for trouble?”

“Much like that, yes.”

She hummed, and we moved further into camp, Mheganni following. News of our arrival spread fast enough that Keeper Marethari already seemed to be waiting for us by the main fire, smiling at our approach. “Andaran atish’an,” Marethari said, nodding shallowly to Mia.

“Keeper,” I said, “this is Mia Rutherford. She is visiting Kirkwall from Honnleath and asked to visit our clan. I can take her away if you wish, but thought it was a harmless enough request.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Mia added.

Marethari smiled up at Mia and put a hand on her arm. “Do not worry, Mia. It is no trouble. You are a friend of Vir’era’s; he has spoken of you before. Any friend of his is welcome here.”

Mia relaxed visibly and grinned widely. Then, glancing at me, she said, “Ma serannas, Keeper.” The words came from her mouth naturally, if flatter than from those for whom it was a first language. Marethari’s smile brightened considerably, and even Mheganni’s impersonal distance lessened.

“Come, da’len,” Marethari said, guiding us to sit on a low bench nearby. “It is nearly time for dinner, and you must be tired from your journey. Sundermount is no easy climb.”

And so we sat, and when the food was ready, I gathered a bowl for both myself and Mia. It was a simple fare: roast rabbit and pickled vegetables atop a bed of some sort of wild grain. Some of the more curious folk joined us, including Master Ilen and Hahren Paivel. Mia was an unusual visitor by any standards; though the clan had grown accustomed to humans in the area, from Feynriel, from the Hawkes, and from the occasional trader, none came purely of a wish to learn more about the Dalish and our way of life.

“Where do you live, then, if you are not from Kirkwall?” asked Pol. “You sound Fereldan.”

“I am,” Mia answered. “I’m from Honnleath. What about you? You don’t seem Dalish.”

“I’m not. I used to live in the Denerim Alienage, before the Blight.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly—well, it wasn’t an ideal life, not even a good one, so I left when I got enough coin. Took years of saving to do, too.”

“He didn’t know we were real until he stumbled on our clan half-starving,” Junar added, grinning even when Pol pouted at him. “He was just _hoping_ , he said.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? And even you said I’m not bad with a bow!”

“Sure, but not bad is still not good. You nearly hit Mheganni just last week.” Mheganni snorted and shook her head when she met my eyes, indicating that Junar was at least kind of exaggerating.

“My arrow landed at least ten feet away from her! That doesn’t count! I’d have hit the deer if it hadn’t moved, and you know it.”

“If it hadn’t moved!” Junar repeated. “You’re meant to expect it to move. Fenarel did.”

They continued like that for a short while more, bickering easily back and forth. Mia listened with shining eyes, her hair like melted gold in the firelight, and managed somehow to laugh at all the appropriate times—and _only the appropriate times_ —without hesitating to be certain she was correctly interpreting the unspoken rules guarding conversations among the Dalish.

Maren joined the growing group around the fire as eating dwindled away into simple conversation, leading Edelweiss straight to me. “Aneth ara, Edelweiss,” I said, then thanked Maren, for which she smiled and nodded.

Edelweiss nudged gently against my head with her nose, drawing a laugh from my mouth. I reached up to scratch her neck, and she leaned into the touch. Mia turned to gaze at the halla, delight evident in the slight curl to her lips, the way her jaw was ever so slightly slackened. “She’s more beautiful than you wrote,” Mia told me, and cautiously lifted a hand towards Edelweiss, pausing that she might decide whether Mia was allowed to pet or not.

“It’s hard to convey just how pretty she is with simple words,” I said, as Edelweiss sniffed at Mia’s hand and then rubbed her cheek against it. Mheganni, sitting on the other side of me, made a soft, surprised sound.

“You’re good with her,” Maren observed. “Not many shemlen are.”

Mia hummed. “I live on a farm. We don’t have any halla, but there are some things that all animals like and need.”

“Oh, a farm!” Maren exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard much about them. It sounds wonderful. What sort of animals do you have? Is it true that cats like to live in the barns?”

“They live wherever they want,” Mia answered, sending a grin to Maren. “We’ve a few that stay in the house when they sleep and a few that prefer the barn. We never really got them intentionally, but when you’ve a barn and a lot of grains, mice and rats come ‘round to eat it, and then cats come to eat the mice, so they’re good to keep around. We also have…”

And so Mia and the clan began to exchange anecdotes. It was the most peaceful exchange between Clan Sabrae and any shemlen that I’d seen yet. Even at the very beginning, when Duncan had come to find recruits, there had been a charged undercurrent echoing every word, an intensity to the situation that simply was not present here.

That is not to say that it was as comfortable as my own evenings in the Hanged Man with the Hawkes and company, but it was certainly more than I’d hoped for, and I was so very thankful for it. I let the conversation flow naturally around me, content to simply listen unless my opinion was called for or a question was asked of me.

And as the night grew chilly, Fenarel took out his crwth and began to play, first simply accompanying the conversation, providing a bit of enjoyable music to hold the night at bay. Soon people began to sing along to the tunes his strings pulled forth, and Mia listened with rapt attention, staring at the instrument and how Fenarel wielded it as adeptly as a bow. A few others brought out their own instruments, including a flute and some hand drums.

One tune ended, and a call was made for another; as it was finished, a new one was named, and those who wished sang along. (Those who didn’t simply listened, without fear of judgement, because music was intended to be something to _enjoy_ Years ago, when I was younger—”

“Centuries back!” interrupted Junar, followed by laughter; Paivel just grinned and continued to sing.

“ _I kinda liked this girl I knew…_ ”

The song was familiar to me, though I could not place who or how or why. Perhaps my own clan, from when I was a child, had sung it as well. Many songs were like that, after all. There were only a few that Fenarel had made on his own, though those were no less beautiful than the ones held in common among all Dalish clans.

 

We spent the weekend with the clan. When we returned to Kirkwall, Castor announced his intent to leave in a few days’ time, and so I spent time with him, Darrien, and Carver. We sparred, mostly. It was the first I’d sparred since Littlefoot’s death. I’d certainly exercised some and practiced the spells I knew, but I had not sparred anyone—not even during my month with Clan Sabrae.

We sparred in pairs—either two on two or one on one. Darrien and Castor worked so well together they may as well have been one mind in two bodies. Carver and I were not so accustomed to fighting together; it had been years since the last time we’d done so, and that showed. In fact, I was better off with those still living in Kirkwall by my side than Carver.

That said… He’d improved very significantly. I could tell within moments of sparring, the two of us against Castor and Darrien (a fight which we lost, but that’s not the point). Before, though he’d hardly been a poor fighter, his blows had always been slow, with arcs so wide they could be seen long before they hit. Now, while he was nowhere near as fast as Castor, nor even quite so fast as myself or Darrien, his speed had improved enough that at least Darrien could not simply dodge. And he had much greater control over the weapon in his hands—one likely made for him by Wade, if I recalled the man’s stylistic markers correctly—able to pull it through the air as easily as I pulled Maleficent.

Still, Castor and Darrien had more practice together, and possibly more experience overall. They covered one another’s weak points as simply as breathing, and trounced myself and Carver quickly. Carver was caught when aiming to parry a blow Darrien sent my way, with Castor jumping in and pressing his blades into Carver’s side (gently so as not to cut, but firmly so as to ensure Carver knew their presence).

And as Carver bowed out, accepting his defeat, it was only a matter of moments before Castor and Darrien had me pinned with a greatsword against the length of my back and a dagger at my throat. Panting, I raised my hands in surrender, and the match was over.

While we rested, Malia and Garrett cajoled their way into a three-on-three match: myself and the Hawkes against the Wardens. It wasn’t exactly a fairly-balanced fight, with two mages on one side and two greatswords on the other, but at least both Malia and Castor favored using a pair of daggers. Besides, I was a shapeshifter, and there was little use in that if I wasn’t able to put it into practice while fighting, too.

(Or so it seemed to me then.)

So I hunkered down as a mabari, giving my best menacing growl when we set ourselves up for the next match—the fifth that day. It almost shocked me how easily Carver fit into the fold of Darrien and Castor’s fighting. Carver and Darrien used their different heights to full advantage, staying near each other—Carver swung high and hard to force his opponents to dodge low, and when they did, Darrien’s blade would meet them, coming low and fast.

If, somehow, both of them missed or were blocked, Castor was there to flank and incapacitate. The three were deadly.

Of course, that isn’t to say that we were beaten easily (though we _were_ beaten). My teeth and nails were fearsome as a mabari, and my strength enough to topple even Carver—which I did, a good few minutes in, after Malia feinted into and back out of Carver and Darrien’s combo. She did get caught by Castor, but it was at least enough for me to bring Carver to the ground. He started to roll away, but I was on his chest with my teeth at his neck before he could manage that. He surrendered, and immediately after that, Darrien held his sword against my back until I surrendered, too.

Garrett, having caught Castor in a weak paralysis glyph, sent several successive blasts of force magic in Darrien’s direction, bringing him to surrender. But Castor was still in the game, and Castor broke the glyph, slipping past Garrett’s defenses in the brief moments his attention was elsewhere. And so the match was won.

Mia, who had been watching, clapped. She actually seemed to enjoy watching us spar, rather than simply doing it out of boredom. Castor bowed deeply to her, and then I noticed Cullen standing beside Mia. A glance proved Carver and Malia were standing protectively in front of Garrett, who was allowing it and glowering.

Cullen, wearing civilian clothes indicative that he was not, for once, on duty at the moment, nodded at our group. “An impressive fight,” he said.

Leandra, sitting at the table with Mia, gestured magnanimously. “Why don’t you join us for tea, Knight-Captain?”

“Sit, Cullen,” Mia ordered, and he sighed but did so, graciously accepting Leandra’s offer in the process. Mia waved everyone else over, too, and while Castor and Darrien did not hesitate, it took a moment more for the Hawke siblings to join us. “I noticed you focused on getting Vir’era through their defenses,” she observed. “Not a bad tactic, if it hadn’t relied on your own sacrifice. He’s obviously not as good as a mabari as he is an elf.”

“Well, yeah,” Malia said, “but you can hardly say that was a very fair fight, anyway, can you? I mean, Garrett and I were with the Red Iron, and neither of us are bad, per se, but I’m pretty sure our Wardens here could take on the whole of the Red Iron and still be dancing pretty little circles ‘round everyone. Don’t you think, Garrett?”

“Probably. Might even do it with their eyes closed.”

Mia shrugged. “You’ve got a point. It’s a bit harder than playing chess. Or maybe it’s like when Cullen tries to play chess against me. I’m better than him. I always win.”

“Not always,” Cullen protested immediately. “I have won a couple games.”

“Yeah, but two out of—”

“More than two, Mia!”

“—sixtwo—uh—out of—out of a lot—like six out of a lot or… oh, whatever, however many you won, I still won more.” She flipped a few curls over her shoulder dismissively. Cullen sighed.

“We did lose a valuable fighter when Vir’era came here, though,” Castor said. “It’s odd to think, looking at him, but he’s at least as good on his own as Darrien.”

“Only because I have magic,” I said. “If I was just—if I only had a staff, and no magic, I’d probably die in seconds in any real fight. Especially now, without Littlefoot.”

Darrien and Carver both snorted, making Garrett wrinkle his nose. “I have to agree with them, as lovely as their sounds were. You’re better than you think you are. Maybe you wouldn’t win without magic, but I don’t think it’d be over quite so fast. Me, on the other hand…”

“Yeah, you might as well just cut your own throat and save them the trouble if you’ve no magic,” Malia drawled. Garrett kicked her under the table. Carver rolled his eyes. Though she didn’t react significantly, I could tell from the distant expression on her face that Leandra wanted nothing more than to hide her face in shame at the behavior of her eldest children.

“Rude!” Garrett accused.

“Maybe, but it’s still true!”

“I’m your brother!”

“So?”

“Maker’s _breath_ , Malia!”

“Children!” Leandra interrupted, all but slamming her hands upon the table. “You are both grown now! Please, do us all a favor and at least pretend to act like it when we have guests.” As they both coughed and glanced away, she muttered to herself, “I don’t know where I went wrong…”

Mia hid her grin (poorly) behind her teacup, and a momentary silence followed as everyone tried to figure a safer conversational point. One that wouldn’t devolve into sibling bickering and motherly admonitions, preferably. Mia had an idea—or, at least, she was the next to speak. “So, Vir’era, Cullen. Have you two ever sparred, then?”

Having been about to take a drink of my own tea, I was grateful I had not yet brought the cup quite to my lips; doubtlessly, I’d have sprayed tea everywhere, which wasn’t exactly the sort of thing one does in polite company. “We have,” I hedged, glancing at Cullen. “Once.”

“When Meredith had made those orders about the ‘lessons,’” Cullen continued. “He beat every single Templar in the Gallows, including me. She wasn’t exactly pleased about that. But it wasn’t an undeserved victory at any point, so she had to concede it all. With his magic available, he’s really quite good.”

I stared down at my tea, hoping I wasn’t blushing from the praise. I hadn’t expected Cullen, of all people, to praise me. It felt especially rewarding coming from him, knowing all I did about where he’d come from, how far he’d come.

“He really beat all the other Templars?” Malia asked, momentarily dropping her wariness towards Cullen.

“All of them.”

“I had Littlefoot, though,” I said. “I don’t think I’d do as well now.”

Without missing a beat, Cullen asked, “Would you like to see?”

My eyes shot wide open and my heart flew to my throat. “Wh-what?”

“I-I mean, not against all the Templars, of course, that’d—that would be difficult, and—what I meant is, if you want, I could spar you. I don’t—I did not bring my armor, but I have my sword.” Cullen coughed. Beside me, Malia had tensed enough that I knew she was ready to protect me if I proved to need it, and though I didn’t think I did, the intent comforted me. No one else spoke for a few moments.

“I… would like to, I think. But, um, but you don’t have a shield, do you? Would that… Do you need one?” He was probably adaptable enough that he could fight without a shield, but since he didn’t even have armor, and I did… “O-or, uh, or we could, do it another time? When you have your armor and shield. To make it fair.”

“I’d rather like to see this, though,” Castor said, leaning forward in his chair. “While I have no doubts about Vee’s ability in combat, I’d still like to see just how he managed to overpower someone who is… oh, probably twice his size?” It was a fair estimate. I had to crane my neck to look at Castor, and Cullen was taller yet (though not quite so tall as Carver, who was simply ridiculous). If he held an arm straight out to his side, I could probably walk under it. (Neria definitely could. Merrill might, too.)

Garrett stood. “I think we have a shield you could borrow,” he offered. For the first time, Cullen looked directly at Garrett, and Garrett looked back. The silence following the words all but choked me. I held my breath.

“I would appreciate that. Thank you, Serah Hawke.” My breath left me in a sigh at Cullen’s polite words. Though he had doubtlessly seen Garrett performing magic, much as he certainly knew Anders was also an apostate, he said nothing of the matter, did not accuse anyone of anything. Maybe things were even better than I’d hoped, back when Carolina had been at the clinic.

Garrett nodded and went to fetch whatever shield he had in mind. There were certainly plenty I’d seen him and Malia loot from raiders and long-dead corpses, but usually they sold them off nearly as quickly as they got them, as neither sibling was particularly adept with shields, and neither’s style could be easily adapted to include one.

As we waited, and in the interest of fairness, I removed most of my armor. Not that even Grey Warden armor tended to amount to much for mages, as we were rarely in great need of it. Our magic was both weapon and armor, most times.

“This should be interesting,” Malia said, when Garrett got back. I didn’t recognize the shield he held, and doubted it was significant beyond not being a Templar shield. It wouldn’t—or, at least, _shouldn’t_ —reflect magic the way Templars’ shields did. Still, to be safe…

Cullen and I walked to the space that had been cleared for sparring and faced each other from around ten feet apart. I gave him a small bow, little more than an inclination of my head, and he mimicked the movement. Then, we entered our own ready stances.

My own, having so long left space for Littlefoot to stand beside me, was still new enough to be unusual. As I had all day, I brushed away the ache of grief. I could deal with that later, when I wasn’t about to engage someone else in mock-battle with very real, very dangerous weapons. (Even if blows were pulled, we had no practice swords nor any way to turn magic to a wooden sword’s equivalent.)

Cullen moved first, pulling most of himself in tightly behind the shield and striding forward, sword by his side. I kept to my claimed space and shielded myself with one spell, placing a paralysis glyph with another.

But Cullen knew about my glyphs now, and had paid enough attention to the way I cast that he paused and cut sideways to move around it. I cast another in his path. He moved sideways yet again. Another glyph, another sidestep. So, the next time, while I carefully mimicked the same motions I’d grown accustomed to using for glyphs, I instead brought up a thick wall of ice beside Cullen.

He started to sidestep, nearly walking into the ice, but stopped himself before that could happen, and instead charged towards me. I didn’t have enough time to cast another glyph, because there was really not much space between us by that point, and instead I raised Maleficent to catch his blade when he brought it swinging in my direction. He was stronger than me, though, and had the height advantage, so it would not be long until my block broke.

I risked stepping closer and to the right by a half step, letting my left hand fall from Maleficent’s shaft. His sword screeched down her length, a truly terrible sound, and Cullen was briefly unbalanced. I tried to reach around to kick at the back of his legs, hoping to bring him all the way down (and knowing I could only do so if I hit the soft spot of his knee), but he caught me on his borrowed shield and shoved me away.

This gave him enough time to recover his own balance while I lost mine. He charged me again, with his shield this time. I spun out of the way and aimed Winter’s Grasp in his direction, but he jumped back at the last moment possible.

We danced around each other like that for a while, trading only minor blows, which had all been very significantly dampened, given the lack of armor. Both of us were focusing more on dodging, and it was obvious enough that even Mia noticed. Five minutes in, she shouted, “Stop messing around! You don’t need to dodge so much!”

Cullen met my eyes. I tilted my head in Mia’s direction. He let out a soft snort, and when he swung at me again I caught the outside of his blade on my staff, stepping around him with a few spun steps, and tapped his back with a minor bit of cold magic that made him yelp. But it was on now, and he dropped low to sweep his foot around, intending to catch mine.

I jumped, and he lunged. A spin, a burst of magic, and I flew off into the air as an owl. I didn’t stay up for long, though. As soon as I gathered enough height, I swooped down into a dive, waiting until I was nearly in range of Cullen’s weapons to go straight to mabari form. He’d been readying his shield to bat me to the side (or so it seemed), but didn’t have enough time to adjust for the mass of a mabari as opposed to an owl, and I toppled him.

He pulled his sword to have at me, but I became an elf again and blocked it with Maleficent. A firm cast of Winter’s Grasp froze him in place. I patted his chest absently before I stood and released the spell. He spent another moment simply lying on the stones, panting and sweating, but smiling. “Well fought,” he said.

“If you’d used your Templar abilities, you would have won,” I told him.

He sat up and shrugged. “That’s not why we were sparring, though.”

“Sparring is about the exercise!” Garrett piped up. “And keeping in practice.”

“What he said.”

“In that case, maybe we should spar more often,” I offered, before I even really knew exactly what it was I was saying. I almost began to take it back, worried that it wouldn’t be appreciated as a friendly offer, as I had intended it—even though I had arguably not intended to make it at all.

“I’d like that, I think. Not many of the Templars want to spar with their Captain, and the Knight-Commander is…” For a moment, the ever-present circles under his eyes looked stormy. “Well, she’s busy.”

“Wonderful!” Mia exclaimed, disallowing any objections. “Cullen needs a friend. I told him so when he first wrote me back, but—well, I guess some over there in the Gallows only see him as their superior, and the rest aren’t agreeable.”

I wondered if she was referring to Ser Alrik. We hadn’t talked about what had happened in the clinic, avoiding it like some sort of large animal no one was to approach, but she had been there. She’d heard what Carolina had said, had heard Cullen’s response.

It didn’t particularly matter, though. For the moment, as afternoon turned to evening and Cullen escorted his sister back to the Gallows, I was simply enjoying an evening with friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fairytale by alexander rybak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evvuZXSRFQI)


	22. varterral more like var-terror

The time came when Mia was to leave, too, and I went with Cullen to the docks to see her off. She promised to write us when she arrived back in Honnleath, though it would take at least a month to receive word of that.

I fell easily into a pattern wherein I spent most of the week in Kirkwall, living with the Hawkes and helping at the clinic, but spent the weekend with Clan Sabrae. Traveling on my own was easy, and honestly less dangerous now that I could become a bird and simply fly back and forth. It took less time, too.

One weekend not long after Mia’s departure, Merrill and Isabela showed up at the Hawke estate. I was preparing to go to Sundermount—which, honestly, was not much of a preparation; I simply put on a set of Dalish clothes and ate breakfast most times. But Merrill had come with a request, not just of Malia and Garrett, but for me, too. She spoke to them first, then came to me.

“Vir’era?” she asked, doing that thing where her eyes were large and hopeful. It was nearly impossible to say no. “I… There is a favor I’d like to ask of you. If it’s alright, that is. You don’t have to.”

Her mouth said that, but everything else screamed that she’d be disappointed if I disagreed, and somehow that was painful to consider. So I nodded. “Dirth ma, lethallan.”

“Ma serannas,” she said, with a smile that could probably cause flowers to bloom. It faltered, though, as she began to speak again. “I… do you remember—of course you remember, I mean, but—the eluvian I have. I need help to fix it, and I know the clan has an arulin’holm. I… I intend to ask for Vir’sulevanan from the Keeper. I’d like your help. She won’t—she won’t listen to me, but maybe you…”

I remembered the eluvian. I remembered crying for it to work, remembered its broken glass cutting into my hands, but I could not remember where I wished for it to take me. Home, certainly, but—home where? Maybe, if Merrill could fix it, I could find out.

“You don’t have to,” she repeated, quietly, as my silence dragged. “I-I know—it’s not—I’ve cleansed it now. There isn’t any more of the Blight in it, but it’s…”

The reason I became a Grey Warden. “I’ll help,” I said. “There are questions I have that… Things it alone can answer, I think. But, Merrill?”

“Yes?”

“If you need… If the arulin’holm isn’t enough. If you need more. I… ask me, first? Before going to a demon, I mean. I-I don’t know a lot about it, not more than you, and maybe less, really, but—I just—I’d appreciate it.”

She didn’t reply at first, and her eyes looked down at the floor. But I waited her out, unwilling to bend on this one request, knowing what I did, knowing what my journal said would happen, and eventually she brought her big green eyes up to meet mine. “Dirthavara, lethallin,” she said. The words felt as binding as any rope.

 

We left almost immediately, pausing only long enough to pack a lunch. It was decided I would fly ahead to tell the Keeper that we would have visitors at the camp, and that one would be Merrill. Malia, Garrett, Isabela, and Merrill herself would take the more traditional path, if only because they couldn’t fly themselves. (Malia did express some mild jealousy of my flight, but didn’t seem terribly upset over it.)

It took me little more than three hours to fly to camp, and I delivered my message without delay. I didn’t say why Merrill was coming, and the Keeper did not ask. Mutters and murmurs did spring up as the news spread, though, and soon everyone was on edge. Little Tamlen, who usually came to visit with me when I was at the camp, was ushered away by Ineria (his mother) when she heard the news. I could have followed them, perhaps, but figured it was best that I remain in the main camp to wait for my friends.

Mheganni sat with me as I waited, and we ate lunch together when the time came. “Tamlen has told me he wishes to be like Maren now,” she said. “He has only ever known Edelweiss, but apparently he believes he would love to work with halla.”

“We’ll have to see if that remains true when he meets more and realizes how difficult they can be,” I replied.

“And if this lasts more than a week.” Mheganni huffed a little laugh, fondly exasperated at how frequently the little boy’s mind changed. It seemed to me that he had a new idea each week for just what he wanted to do or be when he grew old enough. He’d even said he’d like to be Keeper someday, and maintained this desire even after being told only mages ever became Keeper. Until the next fancy took him, anyway.

Spring had long since sprung, and conversation soon turned to the various animals that had been seen waking from their winter slumber or giving birth to young. Mheganni mentioned a chipmunk she’d found half-dead, who she was nursing back to health. “He will not walk properly again, and I do not think I can release him back to the wild. His foot is simply too twisted.”

“So keep him,” I said. “If Revas has not eaten him yet, where is the harm?”

She hummed and looked away. “I do not have a name.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What of Alvin?”

“Shemlen’ul.”

“Simon?” She gave me a look. “Theodore?”

“Why all these shemlen names?” she asked. “You are elvhen, not shemlen.”

I shrugged. “Theodore could be called Teddy.”

She said nothing more on the matter, and the conversation continued, reaching eventually a matter of some interest. “The Keeper has been telling the clan why Merrill left. Why she has not returned.”

“The eluvian,” I said.

Mheganni shook her head. “The blood magic.”

“Why would she tell about that?” I asked. “Does she not wish for Merrill to return? The clan—if they’re told Merrill has been doing such dangerous things, especially with how the Keeper disapproves…”

“I know,” she answered, and frowned at her food. “When I can, I try to tell those that will listen how Merrill is not so different from when she left, and that she is only trying to preserve our history, as any First should.” She glanced at me. “Or Second, I suppose.”

“No, it would be her place to resume should she choose to return,” I said. “Though, with how she and Isabela are now, I’m not sure she will. She seems taken with the idea of roaming the seas.”

Mheganni sneered at the idea, distinctly and determinedly not in favor of that particular relationship. Without any good option for a segue, and leaving me still worrying over how the clan may treat Merrill, she abruptly changed topics. “Do you remember last week, we said there was a varterral near the clan?”

“Yes,” I said. “Has anything been recovered from where it stays?”

She put her empty bowl down and shook her head. “No. It has attacked any hunters who go near. It nearly killed Junar. Keeper Marethari sent in a small group to try and stop it.”

The cut on my jaw tingled, like Mheganni had just given me some terrible news, and I pursed my lips, trying to remember. My journal had said something of a varterral, hadn’t it? Something about a varterral and Merrill’s—

“ _Fenedhis_!” I shot up and wished I’d thought to wear my armor today, but I had never needed it when I was with the clan. “Where is its lair, Mheganni?”

“To the north,” she answered, pointing. “Why? What is wrong?”

“Have you spare armor that might fit me?” We were near the same size, I thought. She was a bit taller, and her breasts made her fuller in the chest, but other than that—

“A chest piece, perhaps, but, Vir’era—”

I ignored her and marched to her family’s aravel. I heard her hurry after me, and Revas swooped down on silent wings to watch. “Where is it?”

“Not until you tell me what is wrong!”

“They will _die_ , Mheganni! We have no time for this!” I urged her to the entrance of her aravel, unwilling even in my rush to simply enter and rummage around. I did not know what was kept where, did not want to make a true nuisance of myself.

“How do you know?” she demanded, even as she gave in.

I didn’t know how to answer that. “Magic,” I said, instead, and though I could tell she did not fully believe me, I let her help me into the single piece of armor. It was more than I’d had coming in, though. “Ma serannas. Tell the Keeper I’ve gone to—”

“No, I’m coming with you,” she informed me. “Harshal is in there.” Tamlen’s father. Ineria’s husband. “Pol, too. Insisted when he heard the Keeper was sending a group in, probably because of Junar.” The two were like brothers. (Not something else, though I had asked once, had thought it.)

“Mheganni…”

“You’ll need help.”

Frankly, it was always impossible to argue with Mheganni when she got an idea stuck in her head like that. Anything more would be a personal offense. And, since she was a capable warrior in her own right, I gave in. We stopped only long enough to tell her sister, Ellana, where we were going. There wasn’t time to go finding the Keeper and arguing for permission to leave, and I was so certain that, together, Mheganni and I would be formidable enough a team.

 

The varterral was rather larger than I expected, though, and its hide was too firm, too much like rock, for Mheganni’s arrows to pierce. We had only barely entered the cave it had claimed when it found us, like it had been lying in wait. My magic injured it better, but even then it was hardly as much as I would have hoped.

There was blood on the shorter arm-like protrusions near its—torso? head?—at the top of the varterral, and I prayed to Mythal and Andruil that it was not the blood of one of our hunters, though I knew not what else it could be. Spiders’ blood was not such a red color.

“No…” Mheganni whispered, horrified. The varterral reared slightly and spit in her direction—I only barely managed a haste spell quickly enough to let her escape its poison in time.

“Quickly!” I said. “We need to find the hunters and make sure they are safe!” I pulled up a wall of thick ice between the varterral and us. The poison was blocking our way back out of the cave—it was a large, smoking puddle that I did not dare attempt to cross. With only one option, we fled down deeper into the cave. The sound of cracking ice followed us, echoing ominously, but my spell held long enough that we ran far out of sight.

We panted in a small nook, empty but for ourselves and some of the deep mushrooms that invariably grew in caves like this. Well, I panted. Mheganni seemed unaffected by our brief sprint, though her every muscle was visibly taut, and her knuckles were white where she gripped her bow.

“Radha, Harshal, Chandan, and Pol were the ones sent by the Keeper,” she told me. “We must save them.” When I looked in her eyes, I thought I saw the glint of magic in them, making their brown shade nearly golden-hued, but it must have been a trick of the light.

Revas swooped silently past, nearly scaring me to death. Owls—slow birds, all things considered, but so very silent in flight as to be nigh undetectable. Thankfully, though, like us elves, owls had been gifted with excellent night vision. We might not need a magelight or a torch, which could mean the difference between being caught and being invisible.

For a moment, we listened to the cave. I released my ice wall with what I hoped was a spectacular burst, and we did hear the cracking-crunching of shattered ice, but there was no answering scream of pain. Just some scrabbling and scratching, which could easily have simply been the sounds of the varterral’s natural movements.

When the grating of rock-on-stone dissipated into a faint echo, we slowly peered out. Revas kept to Mheganni’s shoulder for the time being, and she kept both hands ready on her bow. She had an arrow out, prepared to fire, though the bow itself was not yet drawn, thankfully.

Uncertain, but knowing we could not return the way we’d come, we delved deeper into the cave, creeping quietly on booted feet. I forced myself to breathe, knowing that it would only be terrible if I allowed myself to stop, even in an effort to stay as silent as possible. Mheganni’s breath, though inaudible, slid across my skin from behind me as she kept close to my back.

The air felt heavy, full of tense worries, and we walked as though through the thick jam Malia adored. Each step was an effort in and of itself. My blood pulsed loudly through my ears. My eyes felt impossibly dry, yet I could not bear the thought of closing them, just in case something should happen in the split-second it took.

What felt like ages since entering the cave, but could not have been more than ten minutes, we saw the first body. It was dark enough that we could not see anything in exacts, could not decipher more than ‘recently alive,’ from the flesh still fresh upon the corpse.

But it was still a corpse.

“ _Radha_ ,” Mheganni breathed. I hadn’t known Radha well; she and I had spoken but a few times, even in all the years I’d known the clan. She’d only just become a hunter two years previously. She was still so young—and now, so dead.

I stood watch as Mheganni knelt to the fallen hunter, and did not watch what reaction she had. First or not, Dalish or not, it was not my place.

Only when Mheganni tugged at the sleeve of my robe, face blank but eyes angry, did I begin to move again. We could not help Radha now. She had been dead even as we approached, and her injuries were too severe for me to have fixed even were she alive. We crept on, deeper again. _Andruil, ma ghilana,_ I begged, silently. _Mythal. Ghilan’nain._

But I knew they could not answer.

 

It took us over an hour to find anyone else. We came across no other bodies, but the only person we found was Pol, pressed up against the wall near a branching of the cave. “Vir’era, Mheganni,” he murmured, not allowing his voice to grow beyond barely audible. “Oh, thank the Creators!”

“Where are Chandan and Harshal?” I asked, my voice just as low. “We—we found Radha, but…”

He covered his face with his hands, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I-I don’t… W-we got cornered, near the entrance—Radha, she—she told us to run, and I did. I’m—I shouldn’t have, it was wrong, but the varterral already… She knew, I think, and I…”

I reached my arms up and pulled Pol into a hug, stroking his hair gently. “Shh, you did well, Pol. But you must wait for your tears; we do not know where the varterral is. Can you do that, Pol? We may need to fight.”

He nodded against my shoulder, and I released him slowly. “We will get out of here alive. Dirthavara.” He nodded again. “Which direction did you come from?” He pointed the same way Mheganni and I had come, so I gently led him forward, taking the left path and praying we would find our way back out eventually.

Pol had trained long enough under Junar and the other hunters that his steps and breaths did not disturb the air any more than my own. Mheganni was more silent than either of us, though. She was a true hunter, as quiet as the owl on her shoulder, and likely as deadly to her prey. With luck, the varterral would find her a more formidable opponent when next we came across its path.

Ages passed, to use one of Varric’s favorite phrases, or so it felt to us. My legs grew weary from the constant tension, and my hands cramped as I held tightly to Maleficent’s shaft. The obsidian never warmed under my touch, and my fingers grew cold as the stone’s natural magic seeped their heat endlessly.

Suddenly, as we drew once again near the same branching where we’d found Pol, having found a dead end on the left, lights cast large shadows ahead of us, and feet untrained in the art of silence sent steps echoing to our ears. Mheganni lifted her bow, but did not draw it. I stepped forward into the furthest reaches of the light, Pol right at my back, and peered around the walls to see who might have brought a torch.

The Hawkes, of course. Though it wasn’t a torch; Garrett had brought forth a small magelight, just enough that the humans—Malia, Garrett, and Isabela—weren’t squinting to see where their steps might fall. “You made it,” I said to them, momentarily so relieved that I sagged on the spot.

Garrett nearly jumped at my voice. Merrill did jump. Isabela and Malia just blinked up at us, looking between myself, Mheganni, and Pol. “Just in time for the party, I hope,” Malia said.

“Malia…” Garrett just shook his head at her and stepped forward. “Are you three alright? We—found bodies.”

I didn’t get a chance to answer. Pol had stepped away, back into the shadows. “Why are you here?” he demanded, and though his face was hard to see, his eyes were clear, reflecting the light and aimed unerringly at Merrill.

“I-I came to help!” she said, stepping forward. “Pol…”

“No! Stay away from me!” He stumbled back again, and my throat clenched tightly. Mheganni caught my eyes and gestured me to Merrill with the barest movement of her chin before she tugged Pol to the side.

“What’s going on?” Garrett asked.

“Merrill hasn’t even done anything,” Isabela added. “I mean, except the part where she ran away, but she hasn’t done anything since then. What’s his problem?”

I glanced over my shoulder as I went to them, just to make sure that Mheganni had Pol’s full attention. She did, and I leaned in close to the others. “The Keeper…” I huffed and glanced away before meeting Merrill’s eyes, needing that moment to build my courage. “Lethallan, ir abelas. The Keeper has—she has been telling any who ask that you left because you began practicing blood magic. I only just heard this, or I would have tried to stop her, but—”

“Why would she do that?” Isabela asked, interrupting me when it was apparent that my words were only making Merrill more upset. “Isn’t she the same one who’s always trying to bring Merrill back? Well, other than Mheganni.”

“She is,” I said. “I-I don’t know why she is doing this. She said it’s to protect the clan, but…”

“I don’t like her,” Malia said, utterly blithely. “Most people at least come up with a decent story. She’s just boring and stubborn. But you’ll set them right, won’t you, Vee? You and Mheganni both.”

“Of course we will. I know how important the clan is to Merrill—and I know how important Merrill is to the clan, even if it doesn’t seem that way right now.” I reached out and gently squeezed one of Merrill’s hands, hoping the touch was as reassuring as I meant for it to be. She squeezed back and smiled at me.

“By the Dread Wolf, Pol! Pull yourself together!” Mheganni’s unexpected shout drew all attention to the half-shadows where she was berating the city-born elf. “You can hate her all you like when we have left this cursed cave.”

“She’s a blood mage!” Pol shouted back. “The Chantry warned against them, and even the Keeper has said nothing good comes of blood magic!”

“She is trying to help your ungrateful ass! Who gives a damn if she’s using blood magic to do it? Would you rather die or live? Dirthara-ma!”

Neither were going to back down. As Pol opened his mouth to respond, I froze him with a quick spell. It wouldn’t hurt him in the short-term. “Pol,” I said. His eyes moved to me. “I’m going to release the spell in a moment, but you mustn’t run. If you do, I will only freeze you again.” He blinked, and I released the spell.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, shoulders hunched and lips thin, but at least he’d stopped shouting. He waited for an answer, too.

But I needed one, first. “Do you trust me, Pol?” I asked. He glanced behind me, where Merrill was standing, and I tried again. “You do not need to trust Merrill right now. That’s not what I’m asking. Do you trust _me_?” Someone behind me shifted, and I could only hope Merrill would understand why I wasn’t defending her as soundly as I’d’ve liked. Pol was too skittish right now.

At long last, he nodded. “Ma serannas, lethallin,” I said, and smiled. He didn’t smile back, but he stood a bit straighter. “I will tell you about Merrill later, if you want. But right now, our priority is to stop the varterral. I will make sure no one here gets hurt, if you can promise me that you’ll stay near us. Can you do that for me, Pol?”

“I…” He looked at Merrill. I didn’t stop him, but Mheganni put her hand on his shoulder. The weight of it seemed to pull him down, sagging his stature just a bit. He sighed and met my eyes. “Dirthavara, Vir’era.”

“Ma serannas,” I said. “Right now, it is more important that we all get out alive.”

“Radha, Harshal, and Chandan would want that,” Merrill murmured.

Pol sneered at her before the words hit, and he let go of his hatred at least long enough to ask, “They’re all—all of them?” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

Merrill let out a single sob. “We _must_ stop this varterral.”

No one had any objections to that.

 

It didn’t take long, once we put our minds to confrontation, to find the varterral once more. That we stopped trying to hide probably helped, of course—the noise let it know we were coming, let it know where we were. And it was prepared, when we found it in its central lair, where it had made its nest. Giant spiders swarmed the room around it, obviously brought forth by the varterral.

Why and how, I didn’t care. Nor did I particularly care about why the varterral was attacking us, when normally they simply let elves be. I poured as much mana as I dared into the strongest shields I could manage for our party, and we began to fight.

Garrett, Malia, and Isabela concentrated on the spiders nearest us. Mheganni had Pol take down the further spiders, and I saw her set her arrows to the few tender points the varterral had. They couldn’t do much damage there—the soft underbelly would be ideal, but was impossible to hit from this angle—but at least they’d do something. Merrill worked on the varterral, too, using the cavern floor to trap its legs or spirit energy to sap its strength.

I kept my eyes on my companions. Of the mages present, I had the greatest expertise in the healing arts, and with so many spiders around, plus the varterral itself, I knew my attention was better spent ensuring none of their shields fell and none of them sustained serious injury. When I could, I’d paralyze a spider or two, but there was little opportunity.

Garrett washed several in hot, bright flames, clearing the area immediately in front of us just enough that we were able to push forward. Pol shot down at least one spider from the ceiling, stopping a surprise attack in its tracks, for which I was eternally thankful. Isabela and Malia danced around, teasing and tricking the spiders into Garrett’s more destructive spells. They were the ones I was most worried about; both were a bit foolhardy, and they were the only true melee fighters we had on hand.

I shot a bit of healing magic at Isabela when one of the spiders managed to bite through the shields I’d put up. She didn’t pause to thank me, but she didn’t have time to even if she had wanted. Like the mythical hydra’s heads, these spiders were endless.

Mheganni ran out of arrows. Then Pol did. But while Mheganni had great skill with the long dagger on her hip, Pol was barely able to do more than stab wildly. And without any arrows distracting the varterral, even Merrill’s magic wouldn’t be enough to bring it down.

“Shout if you need healing!” I said, hoping against hope that the message would cut through to each person despite the odd hissing the spiders made and the screeching of the varterral. I needed to add my magic to Merrill’s.

Thankfully, I was not bad at elemental spells—and frost was particularly natural. Rock, naturally sturdy, even in the odd living way the varterral had (what was the difference, I wondered, between a varterral’s rock-like skin and a golem?)—rock could easily be made brittle. And living creatures, ones that bled the way the varterral did, they could be brittle even more easily.

After all, water expands when it freezes. And blood is largely water.

“Freeze it! Down to its bones!” I shouted to Merrill. She gave me only the briefest look to acknowledge she’d heard, and we poured frost energy at, upon, into the varterral.

Ice slid through my veins, reminding me of the first time I’d tried something so ambitious, with Neria during the Battle of Denerim. It was slower now than it had been then, though, and I was prepared for it. I let out a scream, not because I had to, but because it simply felt right. Merrill joined me with, “Na melana sahlin!”

The varterral slowed. The ice moved up my veins to my elbows. Someone shouted, but not for healing, so I pressed on. The spiders began to thin out. Something—part of a spider, probably, and I’d freak out about that later—hit my side. Slowly, slowly, at glacial speed, the varterral’s movements stopped. I could feel the ice in my biceps. Just a bit more…

With a great cracking sound, the varterral exploded. Frozen shards of rock and blood and bone went flying in all directions. I released the ice spell and simply watched the gruesome hail. One particularly large piece fell through the air and impaled a spider. I couldn’t help but feel glad about that, even as the disgust of being surrounded by so many fucking spiders began to really settle in.

The sound of the exploding varterral, combined with the massive amount of spider-death (or, at least, so I presumed), sent majority of the remaining giant spiders scrambling around in a frantic frenzy that was, frankly, disgusting to watch. Legs everywhere, mandibles clicking, some heading straight for us without the obvious intentional threats usually present.

If I wasn’t already plagued by nightmares of things much worse to contemplate (Broodmothers, especially), I’d probably have nightmares about this for weeks. As it was, I would certainly still have nightmares of it, but they’d quickly be overtaken by the usual suspects, and I would honestly prefer a nightmare about darkspawn than spiders.

(An unexpected bonus of being a Grey Warden, I suppose. Default nightmares. They become more tolerable after a few years, even if they’re still damn frightening.)

For a moment, as the last spiders either scurried off or were brutally and mercilessly done away with by those still capable of such, I just stood very still and took stock of the world around me. It was almost peaceful, really, those moments after a battle.

“We should return.” Mheganni’s words brought my mind back to the task at hand. I didn’t relish the idea of going to Keeper Marethari right now, knowing she had—mostly unwittingly—sent three hunters to their deaths. That she was so determined to speak ill of Merrill despite her desire for Merrill to return certainly didn’t help, but that was… Well.

I scrunched my nose at the large stain forming on my robes. Whatever had hit me, which I _really_ didn’t want to think about, was also something I would apparently not forget so easily. At least we were safe. And Pol was, too—we saved one life, even if we could not save Radha or Harshal or Chandan. (Who would tell Ineria? Who would tell Tamlen?)

Malia led the way back out. She had a good memory for things like that, in a way Merrill certainly didn’t and I only sometimes seemed to. (If I didn’t know that Fenris and Mheganni were also good with retracing their steps, I might wonder if it was an elf thing.) Mheganni stayed near Merrill, and Isabela didn’t leave her side, either. It was sweet, really. Maybe someday Mheganni wouldn’t be so suspicious of Isabela. Pirate or not, she really did seem to like Merrill. Maybe she was even falling in love.

My thoughts couldn’t keep a singular path. They kept wandering, even as we left the cave and approached the clan. I heard muttering spring up all around us, but I couldn’t decipher any of the words. It didn’t sound good.

I blamed Marethari.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dirth ma - tell me  
> vir'sulevenan - the entitlement of the Dalish to a property of their people, for an errand they must perform (from DA wiki)  
> arulin'holm - an ancient elven carving tool  
> dirthavara - i promise  
> shemlen'ul - too human ('ul' is 100% my invention and is basically me bullshitting)  
> fenedhis - generic curse  
> andruil, ma ghilana. mythal. ghilan'nain. - andruil, guide me. mythal. ghilan'nain.  
> dirthara-ma - may you learn! (insult/curse.)  
> na melana sahlin - your time now! (basically, time to die; it's one of merrill's canon default fighting phrases. them's fightin' words.)


	23. hadriana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you ready to kill a fucker
> 
> vir'era is and so is fenris

I did not go with the others to speak with Marethari. I didn’t trust myself to. Instead, I returned Mheganni’s chest piece to her and went to sit by Littlefoot’s sapling, where I sat and looked out at the forest as a mabari.

A mabari’s eyesight is nowhere near as good as an elf’s, and I couldn’t see many of the things I knew to be there from before transforming. Their sense of smell, though—that is far better. I could smell many things I had not even seen as an elf: the family of nugs burrowed under a nearby tree, the traces of various people passing by near Littlefoot’s grave, a curious wolf somewhere far upwind. I let in these scents, the smells of the forest, let them surround and soothe me as I sat.

Edelweiss came to sit with me. Then came Revas. Then Mheganni, with a tiny little creature in her hands. I could only assume it was the chipmunk she’d mentioned. And, eventually, Pol came, too. No one said anything, not for the longest time, until Pol shifted to face me.

“Thank you,” he said. He’d never quite gotten completely used to using Elvish. “Mheganni said you insisted on coming after us. If—if it weren’t for you, I might be dead.” I looked over at him, but didn’t change back, didn’t answer. I had no response to this. “Merrill took the arulin’holm,” he continued. “Master Ilen’s none too pleased. But the Keeper said she’d earned it.

“The Hawkes took her to go back to Kirkwall. She… In the cave, when we were fighting, and then back here at camp—she didn’t seem like a normal blood mage.” He picked up a rock, turning it over in his hands, rubbing the dirt from its base. “At least, not the way I always thought they were supposed to be. The Keeper…” His voice trailed off.

“The Keeper is wrong sometimes,” Mheganni said. She wasn’t looking at either of us. Her attention was entirely on the little chipmunk in her hands. It was nervous: I could hear its heartbeat, tiny yet rapid. Maybe because of me. Maybe because of the wolf-scent from the forest.

“Yeah,” Pol replied. “I guess you’re right.”

I took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

 

We sang the mourning song that night, for Chandan, for Radha, for Harshal. Ineria was inconsolable. Tamlen didn’t understand. Mheganni tended to them the same way she tended to wayward animals, and it seemed to help. I stood back, unable to contribute. I could barely muster the energy to sing. I slept at Littlefoot’s sapling. The wolf-scent disappeared in the night, and I wondered if it had been scared off by the wailing notes of In Uthenera, or if it had simply sated its curiosity.

 

Near the end of the month, there were reports of darkspawn on the Wounded Coast. Aveline, being Guard-Captain, received most of them, and she asked the Hawkes and myself for help dispatching the creatures. Malia insisted on bringing Fenris, saying it had been too long since he left the city, and so the five of us wandered the coast for a while. We entered some of the caves we knew to be more than mere burrows, and I concentrated on reaching my senses out for any creeping darkspawn.

There were some, and so the rumors were proven true, but they were few enough that it was a wonder how they had been spotted at all. A few hurlocks here, a genlock there… Not even a shriek or ogre in sight. We killed them quickly and easily.

As the day slipped slowly away, the sun creating long shadows from everything around, we began a search for a safe place to camp. We had planned for this, thankfully; such an excursion, with no single endpoint in mind, could hardly be made in time to return to our beds in Kirkwall. The Wounded Coast had many little nooks and crannies we could take advantage of, and if we were smart in setting up our watches, we would have little to worry about.

Aveline and I were talking, debating the best strategies for taking down groups of darkspawn, when a group of Tevinter slavers—recognizable for the sharply-angled Tevinter fashions they tended to wear—decided to accost us.

“Return the slave!” they demanded, or something to that point.

“Fenris is a free man!” Malia shouted back, as sincere as she only ever was about those things that specifically mattered to her. (Friends, family, and good jokes.)

“He is a slave! And a runaway, at that,” the slavers said. Or perhaps it was something else. I admit I paid little mind to them, being rather more concerned with trying to count their number: about twelve, with two mages standing above us and assorted others attempting to flank us.

As I cast a shielding spell, I swore I heard Malia say, “Fuck you! With a sword!” but it’s possible I was hearing things. (Then again, it would hardly be out of character for her.)

The expected battle began without much fanfare. The mages above us became my primary concern, and I relied upon my friends to take down the encroaching non-mages. In Tevinter, since magic is more than simply legal, but rather actually common, spells had changed enough that the shields I’d learned over my time in Ferelden and Kirkwall weren’t quite so effective against them as against the physical attacks we were more accustomed to.

That said, their shields were also more oriented for magical attacks than physical ones. I cursed, wishing we had an archer with us—Sebastian would make quick work of these hateful people. Varric, too. Alas, only Garrett and I had any ability to reach them with ranged attacks for the moment.

Though, as I sent another superheated fireball hurtling up at them, only for it to dissipate rather unspectacularly against their shields, I wondered if they were any good at physical fighting. Mages here—apostates and the few Circle mages allowed to learn to fight, like Wynne, and Grey Wardens like myself and Neria—we knew how to use our staves for more than spells. Did these slavers know?

It was worth a shot.

I tossed one more fireball, this one slow-moving and too spread to be effective for anything but cover. “I’m going up,” I told Garrett, and before he could protest, I became an owl and flew after my fireball. The heat of it, when I let it catch under my wings, buoyed me up higher, until I was above the two mages.

One waved a hand, dismissing my fireball with a sneer, and the other shot a fierce-looking spear of solid ice to the place where I had been standing moments ago—only to rear back in surprise when he realized I was no longer there. “Where’d the other knife-ear go?” he asked his companion, as I circled above their heads.

“Fasta vass,” his companion answered. “I don’t see the little bitch. Just the one Hadriana wanted.”

I landed behind them as they scanned the battleground, my wings silent to human ears, and transformed back. They did not know I was here. I was sorely tempted to make a witty comment, maybe something about how stupid shemlen were, but knew it would be a bad idea, at least from a tactical perspective.

Instead, I pulled Maleficent back, aiming her blade like I meant to joust. Neither mage wore anything even resembling armor. Either they were truly stupid, or they were simply cocky. It didn’t matter. I ran forward, impaling the taller one on my staff. “Ne sahlin din’an him,” I said, knowing they could not understand me and not caring in the slightest.

To his credit, the second mage was only fazed for a mere moment. Before the one on my staff was even certain to be dead, the second prepared a spell to launch at me. I didn’t see just what the spell was, though; his moment of shock was enough that I leveraged my own body weight to toss the first at him, kicking his body from my blade.

The cliff upon which we stood was small enough that my efforts were more than rewarded. Both mages fell over it, tumbling down the sheer rock face onto the boulders below. I watched them fall, the living man attempting to separate himself from the dead one, and managing only to use his comrade to soften the blow of his fall.

Unfortunately for me, this was enough to keep him alive. The dead mage’s head hit a rock and cracked spectacularly, splitting right open to seep upon everything. The living one received only scratches and one broken arm—though it was, honestly, rather terribly broken. I could see the limpness, see the wrong angle. I felt no sympathy.

In a fit of anger, for elves everywhere, and perhaps for any others they may have wished to take in to a life of slavery, I used what Dalish magic I knew to slough rocks from the cliff down upon the mages. It was, I thought, a far more merciful death than he deserved; it would be quick, at least, while those he had enslaved would suffer for so very long.

The main battle, with the non-mage counterparts to the slavers, was still ongoing. I recast my shielding spell to reinforce the one that had already been present, and tried to find an opening that I may contribute. It wasn’t easy. There were no other ranged attackers for me to take down (they had relied too heavily on their own mages, much like it would seem we did), and the melee was too disorganized and full of my own friends for me to safely cast any spells into the midst.

Most were dead already, anyways. At the very least, though Aveline did frown on unnecessary killing, she seemed to agree with the merciless dispatching of slavers and their ilk. Not that she could stop Fenris if she wanted to—there was nothing in this world he was so passionate about as destroying slavery wherever he found it. And if it just so happened to land in his path? Well, that was simply more convenient.

As I watched, reserving my mana to heal whatever wounds may need tending in the aftermath, Fenris decapitated one slaver before sticking his glowing fist deep into the chest of another. There was something almost beautiful about how he did it. For however violent it was, however gory it could be, he managed to do it with such a feral, fluid grace—much like a wolf. There was a fair amount of truth in his name.

When the last man fell, Fenris turned to look at the crumpled mages. I transformed briefly to fly back down the cliff, which was much faster than finding and picking a route elsewhere, and then stood an elf once more by their bodies. Fenris snarled at me. “I needed to question them, mage!”

“Hadriana sent them!” I blurted, unable to think clearly enough to try calming him down when he was upset.

He froze long enough for Malia to come stand at his side, and though she did not take his hand or anything else so obvious, I did notice the deliberate way she let her arm brush his. Garrett, when he approached, did not get nearly so close, though I knew he and Fenris to be on good terms.

“Hadriana?” Fenris asked, narrowing his eyes at me. “You are certain?”

“Th-that’s what they said. They—she sent them for you,” I said, though the last part was undoubtedly obvious, remembering the words that had been exchanged at the beginning of the encounter.

Fenris stalked closer, examining me so closely I dared not move. “You should have let me kill them. They were mine to kill.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I stared at him, frozen as surely as if I had been caught by an errant Winter’s Grasp, and floundered silently for whatever words might placate him. He was a force of vengeance just as surely as Anders himself; somehow I had forgotten this. I vowed not to make that mistake again.

“Fenris,” Malia said, her voice calm and quieter than his, but still escaping the pitfall of pity. Something only an older sister can manage, I thought. “What matters is that they are dead.”

He huffed, but took a step back from me. “Perhaps. But if Hadriana sent them, she will not be far. We must find her.”

“The holding caves,” I blurted again. All eyes fell to me. “I-in the north. They—they’d make the most sense.”

“Far from the raiders and the Tal-Vashoth,” Aveline said, backing me up. “Close enough to Kirkwall to find you, Fenris. Hidden enough to go unnoticed. And if I’ve heard right, they have tunnels to the Deep Roads.” Most of the deeper caves in the Wounded Coast did, but that was of little consequence. “It’s as good a place to start as any.”

“I know the ones you speak of. Lead the way,” Fenris ordered. Neither Aveline nor I argued.

 

Walking to the caves, which I had otherwise taken care to avoid on the off-chance that any slavers still used them, our group remained mostly silent. Malia, apparently unable to actually maintain complete silence, did have a small conversation with Fenris, but it was quiet enough that I could not hear their words. I glanced back at them but once; they were leaning so close together that I didn’t dare look back again, lest I should intrude on a private moment.

Before we entered the caves, Fenris stopped us. “We must be careful,” he said. “There were many such holdings, once, especially in the mountains where individual slavers kept private pens. They were designed to protect against raids by fellow slavers. No doubt it’s why Hadriana chose this place.”

As Malia, Garrett, and Fenris quietly discussed some strategy, I tried to remember what my journal said about this place. It was frustrating, in many ways—I knew things which would happen, and I often knew an approximate time for when, but all too often they popped up when I was unprepared. How should I have known I would need this information?

Hadriana should be here. If we let him, Fenris would trick her, feigning mercy in exchange for information, but killing her regardless. Honestly, if the Hawkes didn’t allow that to happen, I would kill her myself. I knew about Varania. Enough that I could probably find her with a bit of help—and, thankfully, I had enough friends that I would have no problem finding help. Perhaps Feynriel…

But I was torn from my thoughts as we entered the caves, Aveline tapping her arm lightly against my own to ensure I would follow.

Fighting slavers tends to go in much the same way as fighting anyone else, though they were notable if only for the fact that they had a few mages lurking about, too. (Usually it seemed to be either one or the other, not both, which we fought.) Still, they died as easily as anyone else.

That said… It was a bit trickier in the holding caves, because even as ancient as they surely were, their traps still worked as surely as any I’d encountered elsewhere. Perhaps they were of dwarven make; the rooms, while strikingly Tevinter in decoration, held some of the hallmarks of dwarven architecture—namely the very deliberately geometric shapes and the thick, square pillars.

Still, Malia knew enough to disarm most while we engaged and distracted any slavers we came across, and the rest could be avoided easily enough. (Garrett very nearly triggered one trap that Malia claimed would have lit him up ‘like a bonfire,’ but thankfully she stopped him in time.)

I noticed, as we kept moving, that unlike most of the other caves around, these never seemed to branch. It wasn’t what I’d call a straight line from one end to the other, but the rooms each led only into one other room. Perhaps it had been seen as necessary, back when these were used to hold slaves, to ensure that no one could escape without passing at least one guard.

It disgusted me.

We came to a room much like any other, and when we’d killed the slavers who’d been laying in wait, Fenris dropped his ferocious demeanor to cautiously approach an elven girl. “Are you hurt?” he asked her, his sword on the ground. “Did they touch you?”

“They’ve been killing everyone!” she said, her eyes wide and watery. I couldn’t see any scrapes on her, nor did her clothes seem conspicuously torn, but I put Maleficent aside to approach, as well. Malia, I noticed, sheathed her daggers before going to stand a bit behind Fenris. “They cut Papa—bled him!”

“Why? Why would they do this?” Fenris asked, and though the words were a question, his tone said he knew the answer.

“The Magister… she said she needed power. And someone was coming to kill her,” the girl answered, her shoulders hunched up and hair falling from what had likely once been an impeccable bun. “We tried to be good. We did everything we were told! She loved Papa’s soup—I don’t understand…”

I couldn’t place how old the girl was. Perhaps fourteen. Her words sounded familiar, and all I wanted to do was bring her close and tell her it would be alright. “Oh, da’len…” I said. Fenris glanced at me.

“Everything was fine until today!” she wept.

“It wasn’t,” Fenris told her. “You just… didn’t know any better.”

Her eyes caught on him, large and lost and so very worried. “A-are you my master now?”

“No!” He recoiled visibly from the innocent question. Maybe, to him, it sounded more like an accusation. I couldn’t blame him.

“B-but I can cook. I can clean!” She glanced at the rest of us, but her attention remained on Fenris. “What else will I do?”

I looked at Malia and Garrett. They shared a glance. Malia cocked her head, and Garrett raised his eyebrows. Malia shrugged. “If you want,” Malia said. “You can come with us—my brother and I—to Kirkwall. We can help you.”

“Yes?” the girl asked. “Oh, praise the Maker! Thank you!”

“Just let Vir’era here look you over, alright?” Those were the last words Malia got in before Fenris furiously pulled her aside. I specifically did not listen to the words they exchanged, knowing it was not my place. Instead, I walked up to the girl, making sure she could see both my hands, and smiled softly at her.

“Hello, da’len,” I said. “Do you have any cuts? Bruises? Anything that hurts?”

She blinked shyly at me, then lifted her skirt to show her feet. They were bare, and it seemed she’d been made to walk quite a distance in that way. She had small cuts completely covering the skin. “I can still work,” she insisted. “They don’t bother me.”

“They should,” I said. One cut looked halfway to infected, and one of her toenails was entirely black. “Is it okay if I heal them, da’len?”

“You can do magic?” she whispered.

“I can.”

Her mouth dropped open a little, and she glanced down at the ground. “I-I—you don’t need to heal me, ser. I’ll be fine, really!”

“But I would like to heal you,” I said. “That is part of my job. I heal people.” It was a lie, of sorts. Or was it? Healing certainly wasn’t part of my job as a Grey Warden, but as a First, it was likely one of my primary duties to the clan. Which one mattered in this situation?

“I…” She stole a glance at Malia, who was holding Fenris’ hand, completely oblivious to the apparent dilemma of her new servant. “…okay.”

“Ma s—thank you, da’len.” I gave her the most reassuring smile I could manage and set about healing her feet. Compared to some of the things Anders and I had run into in Darktown, it was hardly a notable task. Even the near-infection and the black toenail were easily set to rights. “What is your name?”

“Orana,” she said, and the name sounded even more familiar than the words she’d said before, though I could not place why.

“We’ll help you, Orana. Stay close, now. It isn’t safe to let you go off on your own here.”

And so, with Orana in tow, we continued through the caves. Though, with how well-developed they were, enchanted stones providing glowing light, I was unsure that they really counted as ‘caves.’ Orana trailed my side, never venturing more than a few steps away. She flinched when we killed the other slavers we came across, but didn’t protest.

There were only a few rooms left, in the end, and we reached Hadriana quickly. Orana immediately shrank back into the shadows, and I repressed the urge to follow her. Hadriana didn’t even notice, so concentrated was she on Fenris.

Not that he let her say much of anything; as soon as he saw her, all bets were off. The fight began immediately. Unlike most of the other mages we’d encountered here, Hadriana’s shields were impressive, impeccable. Not even Fenris’ lyrium-heightened abilities let him penetrate it, and he tried very hard. She was cocky, though; anything that strong had to take enormous amounts of mana, and even with the blood sacrifices that we had seen throughout the caves, she could not hold it and summon creatures to defend her for long.

She sought, it seemed, to defeat us by sheer numbers rather than with any specific talent. While skeletons weren’t easy for Malia to fight with just a pair of daggers, Fenris certainly had no problems. So Malia kept focus on what few shades did crop up, dispatching them with far more efficiency than she would manage against a skeleton.

I split my attention, knowing that I was needed far less for offense than defense here. Orana, huddled against a pillar in the shadows of the wall, was all but invisible to the skeletons, but I made sure none got close to her anyway. If I saw blood, I sent small healing spells to the source. When nothing else required my aid, I poured what power I could spare into the shields I’d cast back at the beginning of this venture. I would need to rest when we made camp, but that was fine.

Soon, Hadriana’s overzealous shields wavered. Garrett spotted the weakness at the same time I did, and managed to land a spell with enough power that the shields simply shattered, sending out a short wave of pure energy that staggered those unfortunate enough to be near the blast.

Fenris, ever determined, recovered first, and slammed Hadriana to the ground. He lifted his sword for the killing blow, standing between her and her staff. I glanced to Orana, but she wasn’t looking. Her face was hidden against the pillar she was leaning on. I could do little more to help, but I moved to stand by her anyway. She should know that someone cared.

“Stop!” Hadriana cried, and I looked back to the scene unfolding in the center of the room. “You do not want me dead!”

“There is only one person I want dead more,” Fenris said, the words as sure a curse as any spell I had ever cast. A promise, a threat, all of the above.

“I have information, elf, and I will trade it in return for my life.”

Varania, I thought, knowing immediately what she meant. I’d memorized the name long ago, knowing it was important, though I’d done little else with it since.

“Ha! The location of Danarius?” Fenris asked. “What good will that do me? I’d rather he lose his pet pupil.”

“You have a sister,” Hadriana whispered, though the words echoed against the stone walls, carrying easily to everyone in the room. “She is alive!” This gave Fenris pause, and he brought his sword down. I said nothing yet. “You wish to reclaim your life; let me go, and I will tell you where she is.”

“How do we know you’re even telling the truth?” Malia asked, hovering near Fenris’ side.

Hadriana laughed a little. “You don’t. But I know Fenris, and I know what he’s searching for. If he wants me to betray Danarius, he’ll have to pay for it.”

Still I said nothing.

Malia pursed her lips and glanced between Hadriana and Fenris. Her eyebrows drew close together, forming lines in her forehead, but she took a half-step back, angling slightly more towards Fenris. “This… is your call, Fenris.”

Fenris walked towards Hadriana, kneeling on the ground. “So I have your word?” she asked, a smile quivering at the edges of her lips. It made me shiver. “I tell you, and you let me go?”

He brought his head so very close to hers that I imagined it became all she could see. I wondered, for a moment, if he looked as much like a vengeful spirit to her as Anders did to Templars. He certainly felt that way to me. Perhaps that was why they could not agree on anything: they were simply too alike. “Yes,” he said, words slower and more deliberate than even his usual careful speech. “You have my word.”

Hadriana’s quivering smile spread. “Her name is Varania. She’s in Qarinus serving a magister by the name of Ahriman.”

“A servant. Not a slave.”

“She’s not a slave!”

Blue light shone through his clothes and armor. Her eyes grew wide, and she started to lean back. “I believe you,” he said, and thrust his hand into her chest to crush her heart. She died.

Fenris stood, glaring at all the world, and brushed past Malia. “We’re done here.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Malia asked, reaching one arm after him but not quite touching.

Fenris whirled on her, and she dropped the arm. “No!” he shouted. “I don’t want to _talk_ about it! This could be a trap. Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this… _sister_. Even if he didn’t, trying to find her would still be suicide!” He snarled and drew back slightly. “Danarius has to know about her, and has to know that Hadriana knows. But all that matters is that I finally got to crush this bitch’s heart. May she rot, and all the other mages with her!”

I didn’t flinch. Fenris was far from being my best friend, but he didn’t hate me. Still, I could feel my eyes growing hot, and I had to look away to make sure I wouldn’t do something I’d regret. Now was not the time to show off my knowledge. The best way for me to help…

I’d just have to find Varania myself.

“Maybe we should leave,” Malia said. I couldn’t see her, but I knew the tone well enough. She was trying to be kind, calm, comforting. She’d probably have let herself reach out for him, this time. She always liked providing physical comfort better than just words.

“No,” Fenris responded, still too angry. “I don’t want you comforting me. You saw what was done here. There’s always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this. Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her?

“What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?”

I did flinch this time. I almost didn’t hear Fenris leave, claiming he needed to go, and absconding before anyone could follow.

I couldn’t blame him. I couldn’t. But it still hurt.

 

We made camp in a small recess of the cliffs—not nearly deep enough to be a cave, but with enough overhang to provide shelter should the cloudy skies decide to rain in the night. Malia and Garrett had a short but serious talk with Orana, and what little I overheard simply reassured me that they intended to take her in as a paid servant. She seemed overwhelmed, and honored, and sad all at once.

Orana tried to insist on making dinner, but was told she simply needed to rest and recover. I beckoned to her as Aveline took over the pot.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked me, quietly so that the humans could not hear.

“No, da’len,” I answered. “It’s how they show they care. You’ve had a terrible day. They would not feel right if they asked anything of you just yet.”

She didn’t reply, but the frown on her face told me she was yet unconvinced. Perhaps in time, she would understand the Hawkes. She seemed to have grown up in slavery. It was doubtful she understood any life outside it. Instead, she glanced at my staff. “Are you a servant, too?”

It was far from the first time that question had been asked of me. Some people simply assumed it, even, by pure virtue of my pointed ears. “No,” I said. “I’m a Grey Warden, and First to Clan Sabrae.”

She stared for a long moment. “Are—are you really Dalish? There were sometimes Dalish slaves at the Mistress’ house, but… they never lasted long.”

I felt my heart contract painfully at those words. “I am, da’len.”

“So you’re really free?” Her eyes were so very large with that question, like she couldn’t even comprehend it, like she barely understood that she was free now, too, that she could leave if she wanted. Maybe she didn’t understand yet. It had only been a handful of hours, after all.

“I am. And so are you.”

She looked over where the Hawkes were talking with Aveline. Well, Garrett was talking; Malia was mostly moping and gazing off towards the city, probably thinking about Fenris. The fading sunlight glinted off their various pieces of armor, reflecting brilliant oranges and yellows. “I guess so,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ne sahlin din'an him_ \- you die now (constructed by me)


	24. vir'era has terrible joke timing; it's almost as bad as malia's, except he keeps it to himself (and us)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretend reasons for late: work, tired all the time, busy lately (started t on thursday!!!)
> 
> real reasons: little bit lazy, a lot writer's block
> 
> once i finish kirkwall, i'm going to have to take at least a couple month's hiatus to gather myself back up. may have to take a minor hiatus between act 2 and act 3, because to be quite frank, this has turned out a LOT longer than i thought, which just proves that i'm making it all up as i go

A few nights after getting Orana settled in at the Hawke Estate, I woke from a nightmare late into the night. Such wasn’t unusual, though I ironically found myself missing the Darktown clinic in those moments, when my shifting might wake Anders—or when his might wake me, and we could take comfort in the knowledge that we were not suffering alone.

Still, I didn’t begrudge him his relationship with Garrett, nor did I feel an actual need to wake anyone. Most nights, I would simply walk around the house for a short while. If Peaches was downstairs, sleeping by the fireplace (as she often was), I would become a cat and join her. She was always happy to have company.

But that night, while I wandered around like some sort of ghost, I found Malia sitting before the fireplace, a bottle in her hand. It was strong enough that I could smell it from across the room, and if the limp way she held herself was any indication, it was only headier when imbibed.

“Malia?” I called, keeping my voice quiet enough that we would not disturb anyone else’s sleep. Orana had already proven a very light sleeper, and Leandra was little better.

Blue eyes peered around the large chair to find me, and Malia made a gesture with her free hand that I took to be an invitation. “Can’t sleep either?” she asked.

“Nightmares.” She knew about them. Everyone in this house did, by now. She nodded, staring off towards the window. The firelight gave everything a warm touch, but even with that, I could see the drained slump to her shoulders, the way her lips were nowhere near their usual playful smirk. “Are you alright?”

She hummed. “Been better.” A long swig later, she said, “Fenris and I… It didn’t work out. Or something.”

I’d heard him come to the house earlier in the night, but hadn’t heard him leave. She must have been here a while. “Ir abelas.”

“He said he needs time. And I’m okay with that, really,” she insisted. “It’s not—I don’t have any need to be, I don’t know, involved with someone in the immediate future. But I just— _damn_.” She sniffed loudly, wiping her face with the sleeve of her house robe. I looked away, examining instead the intricate carvings in the marble of the fireplace.

“It hurts,” I said. I remembered Nathaniel’s face with perfect clarity, when I left him on the docks. He’d been bathed in orange light, and it had burned to look at.

“Fucking terribly,” Malia added. “I-I’m so gone on him, Vee. Maker, all I want is to do whatever I have to in order to make him happy, make him feel—whole, again. I’d do anything. I’d storm Tevinter.”

“I know.” I wondered if there was anyone I’d ever feel that strongly for. Nathaniel was the closest, but… we didn’t have that much time with each other, not enough for things to grow so much as they had for Fenris and Malia. And now, though I got flustered around Sebastian, even I knew that was little more than infatuation, that it would never go anywhere. My heart ached for Malia.

“But he wants space. So I—I’m going to give him that. I have to, don’t I? Not just ‘cause he asked, though that’s also a big reason, but also because—because it’s what he wants. And Fenris, he never asks for much. How can I deny him this?” I heard her sniff, then what may have been a sob, or perhaps a sorrowful laugh.

What was I meant to say to that? I didn’t know. I said nothing.

“Still hurts, though. Hurts worse than…” She trailed off. The light danced with the shadows on the mantle, a story all its own, impossible to decipher. “Well. I’ve had worse. But I figure I deserve one night to feel fucking sorry as shit for myself, and then tomorrow… Tomorrow, I’ll put on my big girl britches, and I’ll fucking deal with it.”

“I’m always here, if you need me,” I said, glancing at her so she would know I meant it.

She met my eyes. “You’re a good man, Vee.”

She lifted the bottle again, gulping down the remaining liquid inside. I sat with her until she went to bed, and made sure she got there safely. I left a small vial of elfroot on her bedside table for the hangover she’d certainly have come morning.

 

Somehow, everything exciting happened in one weekend. Or, at least, several exciting things did, and I heard about most of them only after they’d occurred, given that I had been with the clan. For one thing, Anders took Garrett and Malia down through the sewers to save a mage from Ser Alrik (and succeeded). Then some of the workers at the Bone Pit were killed by people trying to sabotage the mine, though Malia and Garrett got that settled rather quickly. And _then_ , Varric mentioned finding out that his brother was back in Kirkwall.

And to top off the shit pie…

Ser Emeric had managed to convince the Hawkes that Gascard DuPuis was the one man he’d been searching for these past few years, the one who’d killed a string of women including Ninette and Mharen. They even raided his house, and Malia killed him. (Apparently, he was a blood mage—and not a ‘benign’ one like Merrill.)

I took to my journal immediately upon hearing this. When would the real killer come for Leandra? I had to know. Surely there’d be a note in my journal, I thought—but alas, nothing.

So I did the next best thing.

“Leandra?” I asked, in the late afternoon when I had a moment to spare. (I had tried calling her Lady Hawke once, but she refused to have it.)

“What is it, dear?” She gave me a little smile, glancing up from the papers she was taking care of for the estate. (Though Garrett and Malia owned the house, it was mostly Leandra who took care of the finances and the minutiae, with some help from Bodhan.)

“I don’t know that Garrett or Malia have said anything, but there is something you should know.” She put down her brush to look at me more fully, the smile slipping into concern as I continued to speak. “I don’t wish to alarm you, but there is… something that might cause worry. If you like more information, I’ll gladly tell you, but I would warn you to be wary if ever a bouquet of white lilies is sent to you.”

“White lilies?” she repeated, lips pursing in thought. “This is about those missing women, isn’t it? Aveline told me. I do hear rumors, you know.”

Abashed, I looked down. “It… worries me.” I couldn’t tell her the truth. Perhaps I should tell Anders, though. He knew enough to believe me—or so I hoped.

“Oh, Vir’era…” The way she said my name, though so very different from how an elf would pronounce it, came with a mother’s care. “You don’t need to worry. I might not be young or a fighter the way you and my children are, but I can take care of myself.” I nodded. “Besides, Aveline assures me they’re little more than rumors. Lilies are common in the Free Marches.”

“Still,” I pressed, letting myself look back at her. “I think—I think we would all feel better if you took just a small amount of extra care. Please. For—for our peace of mind, if nothing else.”

There was warm velvet in her smile. “Of course, dear. I’m sure Peaches could use extra exercise if I go out at night, anyway.”

It was all I would get, but it was enough that I felt a little lighter.

 

That evening, I went to visit Varric for dinner. My journal said that there were two options, two possibilities for Bartrand, and I wanted Varric to choose for himself. He made such bluster about wanting Bartrand dead, but… Did he really? I couldn’t help but doubt his words, if not his anger. Bartrand was his _brother_ , and I knew that meant a great deal more than he would ever say aloud. (I remembered my own brother. I loved him so very much, even if I rather hated admitting so. I missed him.)

“Varric,” I said, after we had finished eating, when I finally worked up the courage. “There’s… something I need to tell you. Ask you, maybe.”

“You want to come with us to get Bartrand, right?” he asked, peering at me from where he was polishing Bianca. “I don’t blame you. You’re free to come, since you were down there with us. I know it wasn’t exactly your favorite memory.”

My jaw dropped a little in surprise, and I blinked at him. “I—that’s, um—I mean, I would… I would like that, I think, to look at him and learn why, but—that’s not—” I tugged on my sleeve and sighed. “That’s… not what I was going to ask. Say.”

He put Bianca down now, turning to face me completely. His attention was so complete that it held the weight of an entire theater’s audience. “Alright,” he said. “I’m listening, Mittens. What’s on your mind?”

The nickname soothed me a bit, like he’d reached out to rub a hand down my fur. “It’s about Bartrand.” He said nothing, did nothing. “I… The idol. It was made of red lyrium, the same as… the same as we found everywhere in that ancient thaig.”

“I remember.”

“I-I don’t—I don’t know exactly how to… explain it, so I’m sorry if this makes little sense but—red lyrium is… It’s different from normal lyrium,” I said. I could feel myself frowning, feel how tense my muscles grew, but could not convince myself to relax. “Even normal lyrium is hardly safe, but _red_ lyrium is—Varric, it sings as loudly as the Archdemon.”

“The Archdemon sang?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Then, shaking his head, he said, “Right, Grey Warden. That’s… Well, that can’t be good. I mean, I’ve heard some people—carta dealers, mostly—say lyrium calls to them, but if the red stuff’s louder or whatever, that really can’t be good.”

“It’s not.” I pulled Maleficent from my belt and let her grow to her true size. “The lyrium here,” I said, pointing to the tip of my staff, “it sings a little. I can’t hear it, because it’s not something we’re supposed to hear. But Justice—back before, when he and Anders were separate, at Vigil’s Keep—he said that he could hear the lyrium singing. I don’t know if he’d be able to hear the red lyrium, or what sort of difference the sounds would be, but…

“I can hear the Blight, sort of. I hear it and I feel it, because that is what it means to be a Grey Warden. I’ve told you this, a little, but never much, because—well, it’s supposed to be a secret. Grey Wardens love their secrets. But the Order… Well, I think it could use a few less secrets, sometimes, and this is a time when keeping a secret won’t help.”

“So why are you telling me?” Varric asked. “You said this has to do with Bartrand, but so far, other than the fact that red lyrium’s even more different from the normal stuff than we thought, I’m not seeing the connection.”

I nodded. “It’s more potent. Faster-acting than normal lyrium. And I think—I don’t know, and I doubt I ever will—but I think that the red lyrium… I think it may have affected your brother.”

“You’re saying you think that the idol made him try to kill us?” Varric asked. “When he’d barely touched it for more than, oh, five seconds, and the rest of us had been closer to it?”

“I… yes.” I stared at the table, at our empty plates. “Some people are more susceptible to lyrium, and so… I mean, if your brother was, then it could have been that.”

“But you don’t know.”

I shrugged.

Varric sighed loudly, and I heard a small thunk. When I looked up, he was leaning far back into his chair, one gloved hand covering his face. “Andraste’s flaming ass, Mittens. This was _supposed_ to be simple.”

“We’ve never been that lucky,” I said.

“Void take you for being right.” He dragged his hand down his face and met my eyes, looking wearier than I had ever seen him. “Do you think he’s still in there somewhere? The Bartrand I grew up with, I mean. Or is it all just the one who locked us in an ancient thaig to die?”

How was I meant to answer that? “I don’t know,” I answered, barely louder than a whisper, barely audible above the cracking of the fire. “I just don’t know.”

“Any other reasons I should keep in mind before I get too tempted to put an arrow right through his thick skull? Assuming it can penetrate.”

This time, I peered at him, head tilted a bit, trying to decide if I’d know if he lied. I probably wouldn’t. “Have you told anyone about the thaig? Where it is?”

“No one who doesn’t already know,” he said, smoothly as ever, not missing a beat.

“Keep it that way,” I said, “and maybe we’ll never have to worry about red lyrium again, once we find the idol.”

Now he squinted at me. “‘Once we find the idol?’” he repeated. “Mittens, what in the Void are you talking about? Bartrand should have it.”

“Hopefully nothing.”

He didn’t believe me.

 

Why things always enjoy happening all at once, I’ll never know. The next night, we went to Bartrand’s mansion in Hightown—just the Hawkes, Varric, and me. “If Carver were here, I’d invite him, too,” Varric said. “But he’s probably doing some important Grey Warden stuff.”

“Unlike Vir’era’s work?” Malia asked, smirking and nudging me. I shrugged, knowing I was hardly part of the Order anymore. But until I left—until I either prevented Anders’ eventual outburst or was forced to run because of it—I’d hold onto those ties. They kept me safe.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s doing something important when we’re not looking,” said Varric, voice smooth as oiled leather. “Grey Wardens do love their secrets.” The words scratched my ears, but I didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.

“That they do.” Garrett strode forward, jerking his head to the door. “So, are we going to find your brother, or what?”

“Yeah, alright. Let’s go pay my dear brother a visit.”

Walking through the mansion was about as unnerving as I expected it to be, though I hadn’t expected there to be so much fighting. We did our best to incapacitate the guards rather than kill them, but—it wasn’t always possible. Something, some force that left my bones cold beneath my skin, compelled them to keep fighting long after most would have stopped. Perhaps death was a mercy.

“What’s wrong with them?” Garrett asked, shutting the eyes of a woman whose neck he’d had to cut. It did little to make her seem at peace; the rest of her was bloody and torn still, her trachea visible in ways no one’s should be.

“I don’t know,” Varric answered, but he gave me a long look. “I bet it’s Bartrand’s fault, though.”

Garrett frowned. “I really hate your brother, Varric.”

“Get in line.” The words weren’t as convincing as he meant them to be, sounding instead like aged parchment. Neither Garrett nor Malia commented.

We found a serving man upstairs, still with his mind intact. Varric told him to leave, that it should be safe to get out. He didn’t need to repeat himself. Before the man left, he pointed to a door. “That’s where Bartrand is. I thought he was alone, but the sounds… Ancestors save me, those sounds aren’t natural.”

I hoped he hadn’t been hearing the red lyrium, but there was no way to tell, no way to ask. I knew I could hear it, but I also knew that what I heard was very, very different from what anyone else heard. If they even heard anything. (It sang like the Archdemon’s song, but I didn’t hear it with my ears. It resonated in my blood, in the pounding of my heart, and it pulled at my soul through my chest.)

We opened the doors. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. Bartrand’s fingers were bloody, torn. He dragged them against the ground anyway, his hair and eyes wild, uncontrolled, untamed, leaving dark smears against the floor.

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric whispered. Bartrand looked up and managed to focus very briefly on Varric—just long enough to recognize who stood before him. His clothes were as much a mess as his fingers, torn and soiled. The whole room smelled like Darktown, like sewers and excrement and rot. Malia and Garrett covered their noses.

“Varric! Varric, you’ll help me find it, won’t you, little brother?” Bartrand asked, stumbling in our direction, but his words were so desperate I hardly understood them. He kept talking, pitch rising eternally, but the words that followed were indecipherable to me.

“What _happened_ to you?” Varric asked, but Bartrand didn’t hear him. He pawed at Varric, and I saw that some of his fingernails were missing. He slurred something, gaze falling a bit to the wayside, and I gave up on understanding him. “Where’s the idol?”

“She has it!” Bartrand declared, a singular clear sentence, then he began his rambling again. “Shouldn’t have sold it. Knew…”

“He’s not right,” Varric said, backing up. Bartrand continued to look off in other directions, addressing things that weren’t there. “It drove him mad.” He looked at me. “Is there anything you can do?”

I opened my mouth, then glanced away, shutting it again, and shrugged. “Not… not anything permanent. I can give him a moment of sanity, I think, but… I don’t know how to heal him. Not even Anders could. Ailments of the mind—they’re… they’re beyond any healer. But with time, and in the right hands… I don’t know. He might—he might heal.”

Varric let out a long breath. “I can’t leave him like this. Not if there’s even a chance to fix him. Could you…”

I nodded, moving towards Bartrand without needing the rest of the sentence. Malia and Garrett stood on either side of Varric, bracing him in their own way, and I reached a hand out to Bartrand. He didn’t look at me. I don’t think he noticed.

The mind is too tricky to heal in the way that muscles, bones, and skin can heal. The chemical balance is so much more delicate, and so much is held in a teetering balance; that is the reason, or so I had come to understand, that even accomplished spirit healers like Anders and Wynne could do nothing for those afflicted with mental illness.

Still, temporary solutions were possible, so I took a deep breath, willing myself to remain calm, and I pushed just enough healing energy into Bartrand. It healed his hands, though it could not restore his fingernails (they would have to grow back on their own), and it was enough to give him a moment of sanity.

As I slipped back, unwilling to be part of the next scene, I wondered if I would benefit from such healing. Varric led his brother out and away; I didn’t know where they went. I followed only to the door of the house, then absconded into the Chantry through a little mouse-hole.

 

The very next night, Mother Petrice tricked and killed Saemus Dumar. Even Sebastian loudly advocated for her death; no one complained when one of the Qunari warriors killed her. While most everyone agreed that justice had indeed been served—or, at least, everyone who knew exactly what had happened—rumors flew fast and wild enough that all too soon, the tensions in the city grew once more. We were reaching a boiling point even as we reached the crest of summer…

And, perhaps nervous from all the action in the city, white lilies did come for Leandra.

I was home, though. It was early evening, and though normally I’d be in the clinic, Sandal had caused something of a minor explosion in the basement, so I’d been sent for to come help heal him and fix what I could. So, when the lilies came near the time that Leandra intended to go visit Gamlen, Orana came to fetch me.

“Warden Vir’era?” she called. (I had asked that she use only my name, but she insisted, rather vocally, to keep the title. I didn’t have the heart to press the matter.)

“Yes?” I asked, looking up from my task. Sandal stood nearby, watching the proceedings with mild interest, long since healed of the small burns he’d sustained.

“You said to get you if Mistress Leandra ever got white lilies, and she just did.” Orana didn’t enter the room, hovering by the door instead. I hardly blamed her. Even before the explosion, the place had been a mess—Sandal, though excellent at enchantment, was not particularly good at cleaning. (At least he was organized.)

Dusting off my hands, not terribly worried yet, I stood. “Is she still here?”

“No, ser,” Orana said. I froze. “She said she was going to visit Mister Gamlen. She took Peaches with her, though.”

Peaches wouldn’t be enough protection. “Orana, please go to the clinic to fetch Anders and Garrett and tell them what’s happened. I’m going to go after Leandra to make sure she’s safe.”

“Yes, ser.” She curtsied, then turned and hurried down the stairs to the deepest cellars and the secret entrance to Darktown. Normally, I’d have gone myself, knowing that even a short distance in Darktown would be unsafe for a young girl like Orana, but I couldn’t justify even a moment’s hesitation in helping Leandra. Too many women were already dead. I didn’t want her to be another.

I didn’t bother changing into my armor. The tunic and pants I wore in the house would have to be enough. Instead, I transformed into a mabari and used that form’s superior sense of smell to begin tracking Leandra. If she was going to visit Gamlen, I knew she was headed to Lowtown—but there were many paths there, and it was impossible to know which she took without tracking her.

The streets of Hightown, though, were too perfumed to find Leandra as quickly as I should have. Leandra herself rarely wore perfumes, but almost all the other noble ladies did. I didn’t catch up with her until I reached the bridge into Lowtown—the only place that connected the otherwise entirely segregated parts of the city.

I was late. I saw a hooded man stumble, bleeding. I saw Leandra stop to help him, despite Peaches’ growls and bared teeth. Then, the air shifted. Peaches calmed down. Leandra stumbled, but remained upright. There was no telltale glow, no significant or new blood splatter, but any mage worth their salt knew what magic felt like. And this?

This was blood magic.

A mabari was too conspicuous to continue following. So I slid to the shadows and downsized to a cat—just as efficient a tracker, now that I had my prey in my sights, but far less noticeable, especially in rat-infested Lowtown. This place was a haven for feral cats.

Still, I stuck to the shadows where I could. Peaches didn’t notice me, and she was my greatest concern. War hound though she may be, Peaches had never lost as much hearing as other mabari. If I made one wrong step, even the quiet granted me as a cat would not stop hear from hearing it.

The three walked to the foundry district, which was long since empty. The sun, all but a faint orange glimmer in the distant sky, cast long shadows into that walled place. Once they were out of sight of the main thoroughfare, with only my eyes watching, Peaches simply stopped and laid down, apparently falling asleep. Leandra and the man kept walking.

I crept towards Peaches. The only movement she made was that of her breathing, reassuring me that she was, at least, still alive. Leandra began to mount a staircase—to the same Void-begotten foundry as three years ago.

Carefully, making sure that Leandra never left my sight, I pressed one paw against Peaches’ nose, extending my claws just enough to sting. Her eyes flew open long before blood was drawn, and I took my paw off. She was visibly confused, ears flat, looking for Leandra. I made sure to stand in her way.

Risking a transformation was out of the question. I had no way to predict what would happen, or if using magic would alert the blood mage to my presence the way it had alerted me to his. But I needed Peaches to fetch the Hawkes. With luck, Garrett was already on his way. Malia, though—Malia had been visiting Isabela at the Hanged Man, possibly getting drunk again. (Not quite a habit, yet, but likely enough.)

Peaches stared into my eyes. She knew who I was. She always did, no matter what form I was in—unlike Ser Pounce-a-Lot, who only recognized each form as a separate entity. If I was lucky…

I meowed at her. Hardly an intelligible sound from the perspective of any creature with significant higher thought, but I knew I had specific meows for greeting different people. It wasn’t intentional. It just happened. So, in that moment, I used Malia’s greeting.

Peaches blinked, then glanced behind herself. I repeated the sound. Peaches looked around again. Leandra was at the door of the foundry. If my meows reached her or the blood mage’s ears, neither was concerned enough to turn. I risked the meow once more, and this time, Peaches stood, making a little huffing sound, and started to walk back into Lowtown.

She paused at the entrance to the foundry district, as I began climbing the stairs to the old building the mage had appropriated. I returned her look long enough to see her continue her path, then darted into the foundry.

It was dark in the foundry. Darker than I remembered, but just as stale. New layers of dust had settled over everything. Only one singular path disturbed the otherwise flatly grey shade it impressed upon the floor, and this was the path made by Leandra’s feet and the blood mage’s robes.

I breathed as slowly as I could, unwilling to let dust give me away now. No sneeze would be my undoing. (How terrible would that be?) Here, in the deep shadows, with the occasional rustle of a mouse in the walls, it was easier to follow. I felt like little more than one more feral cat, prowling for my next prey.

Up the stairs, down the hall. Aha, a trap door beneath a conveniently-placed crate. But they left it open—did they know I was here after all? Was the man simply that careless? Or was Leandra capable of just that much rebellion against the blood magic that held her in its thrall? It didn’t matter. I followed them down.

I should have stopped them there. Or in Lowtown, when first I felt the unnatural pull of blood magic casting its net. But I didn’t. I waited. I followed. I slinked through shadows and past mementos held in stasis with a reverence bordering on worship. The whole place reeked of old blood and demons and strange herbs not native to this part of the Free Marches.

In my own defense, I didn’t pause. I didn’t let that man take Leandra out of my line of sight, didn’t linger over the morbid altar, the mausoleum-shrine to a woman who had Leandra’s face. My fur stood on end as I walked past it; skeletons long forgotten in these Kirkwall tunnels poked their bones out of the dirt we walked upon, peering with empty eye sockets at those who dared disturb their rest, eager for a fight.

I stepped lightly around them, leaving not even a paw print in my wake. Peaches would get Malia. Orana would get Garrett. They’d come. I just had to keep myself and Leandra alive until then, just had to make sure this despicable excuse for a man did nothing irreversible.

It seemed an impossible task.

Past the velvet-draped bed and the heavy wooden furniture (how did it get down here?), there was but one room, and it was far better described as a laboratory than anything else. I had never seen anything of its like in my time, not in person. A word flashed through my mind before I could stop it— _Frankenstein_ —but I didn’t know what it meant, just that it was somehow right.

There was a body already laid out upon the simple wooden table in the center of the room. No bright lights shone upon it, but it was distinct enough to a cat’s night vision that I knew precisely what had been done to it, what horrible things…

Stitches, precise and beautiful even in this terrifying circumstance, tied together pieces of women long since dead. The strange herbs emanated from the patchwork menagerie in fumes, all but visible. The body was nearly complete—strewn around elsewhere, I saw other body parts, carefully acquired and preserved, but abandoned when something better was found.

All this mix-and-match woman needed now was a head.

Leandra pulled a chair near the body and sat in it, the very picture of a noble upbringing. Though her movements were hardly her own, her eyes were not glassy. She saw me. In the lingering look, I knew she recognized me. In the lingering look, she gave me away.

The blood mage spun. I stared at him. He stared at me. “She always loved cats. Is this a sign?” he asked. I highly doubt he was actually addressing me.

I stood up an elf anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the scene at the start with malia is mildly based on a conversation i had with a friend who had recent relationship troubles (of a sort)


	25. what is pacing i don't know how to do it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS IS A WEEK LATE LOL i uh. kinda didn't notice. in fact this whole week has been insanely fast for me. oops.
> 
> i'm getting back into the groove of writing more regularly (my inspiration and ability to write have been p weak lately but i'm workin on it) so HOPEFULLY this won't happen again?
> 
> that said, even though we're only, like 2/3ish of the way through this fic, i'm anticipating a need to take at least a minor hiatus between this installment and the next. not 100% sure how that'll go etc but i'll keep you updated.

Whatever amount of surprise I’d expected, I didn’t get it. The blood mage was far faster-thinking than I had anticipated, and he was quick to attack. Still, I had enough time to cast a shield over myself and Leandra. With luck, it’d keep us alive until help arrived. Without… I wasn’t sure what I’d do. I wanted to save Leandra.

But I also wanted to live.

I dodged to the right. The bright spell flew past me, crashing into glass that scattered in pieces across the floor. I sent Winter’s Grasp in retaliation, but it fizzled out on an invisible shield, one much stronger than my own. The man grinned.

“A final test!” he said. “You are pretty, for a man, but I have no need of knife-ears or men.”

I didn’t respond. Three more spells, none of which I recognized, came at me in quick succession. Ducking, I tried to use Maleficent’s blade instead, but she bounced off the same shield that had blocked my Winter’s Grasp, jarring my arms and upsetting my balance.

I was down long enough for demons to arrive, summoned en masse. How many, exactly, I could not see. Instead, I strengthened my shields as much as I dared, and launched myself as fully into battle as I could. I was getting better.

One shade went down quickly, with a single swipe of Maleficent’s blade. Another took two bursts of magic to fell. Three skeletons ganged up on me simultaneously. I caught the daggers of one on my staff. The second stepped onto a paralysis glyph. The third, with its large axe, forced me to roll away. When it swung again, it destroyed the second skeleton.

I dodged a third swing of the axe right into a rage demon’s path. The demon roared at me, hot air whipping through my hair. For a moment, I swore I couldn’t see anything. I brought a frantic wall of ice around myself. Something screamed. Something else crashed right into the ice, breaking it open. Shards shattered away from me as I broke the spell. They caught more than a few of the demons and skeletons, but not enough.

A desire demon made to claw me. I ducked under its arms, tackling it as low as I dared. It fell to the ground, but still caught my back, shredding my robes. My spell saved my skin from splitting, but it would certainly be painful later. A shade started to reach for me; I had nowhere to go, my position no good to deter it.

One Mind Blast later, I made a deliberate decision to back myself against a wall. Far from ideal, but with this many opponents and no escape, at least this way I could ensure I’d see most attacks coming. It even seemed to work, at first. I managed to kill at least three creatures with one particularly sharp ice spell. I saw every attack as it came, giving me enough time to dodge or block.

Still… Every block I caught with my staff ground my bones in their joints, and every hit I took whittled away at my shielding. I didn’t have the mana to spare for large-scale spells, nor the strength to brute force anything. Leandra was still in danger, and I couldn’t see her. Her shields were up; I could feel the mana drain. But I couldn’t see what the blood mage might be trying.

I had little choice in the matter but to keep fighting. Blocking, slashing, glyphs, spells, anything and everything I could think of, I tried. It seemed barely of use. For every shade that faded away, another took its place; for every skeleton returned to death, for every rage demon extinguished, for every desire demon snuffed… This man was very powerful, and a very skilled blood mage, to summon so many. Far more powerful than me, it seemed.

I did what I could to avoid falling into any predictable rhythm. Demons, even if under the absolute control of a blood mage, are far too smart to be outmaneuvered quite so easily. Not like darkspawn, which never learn. (It said too much for comfort that I would have preferred to fight darkspawn in droves than whatever demons a single blood mage could summon.)

There wasn’t much else I could do. Unless Leandra’s shielding fell, I had to hold these creatures’ attention. I didn’t have the time or wherewithal to come up with a better plan, either. Every split-second of reprieve was used to predict the next hit, and even that was only mildly successful.

Soon, several creatures later, I was covered head-to-toe in the muck and debris demons left behind. It was rank—worse than this room had already smelled, with a sick-sweet tinge like food left to rot. Some slipped past my lips as I panted, worming onto my tongue, a disease that does not stop. I nearly hurled. Claws on my unprotected cheek stopped that, bringing me forcefully back into the fight, but now my stomach churned with each swing of my staff.

I slammed my foot against the ground, using what little Velanna had taught me of a Keeper’s magic to direct the earth to my will. It did little against shades, whose bodies are hardly solid, but did drag what few skeletons remained back into their graves, and brought one unfortunate desire demon with them.

When I looked up, my salvation had arrived. Like a vengeful god, Garrett shot lightning into the room. It jumped around violently, hitting demons and cauldrons with no hesitation. The room all but exploded in response, shards of metal and hunks of demon-flesh flying everywhere. The relief I felt was so total, so completely immense, that it felt as though someone had punched me in the back of my knees, and I collapsed to the floor.

I almost didn’t see Malia, but that is a good thing—that’s what she wanted, what she was training herself to do. The first glance I caught of her, she was already in the blood mage’s space, her daggers catching the light Garrett’s magic threw around the room. “Elgar’nan, ma serannas,” I prayed, hardly cognizant of the words leaving my mouth.

Then, as arrows joined the fray and the telltale bright blue of Justice entered my vision, my nerves at last won the battle with my logic, and I vomited. My hold on consciousness wavered, and the shields I’d cast—what was left of them—fell back into the Fade.

At least, without that mana draining away, I managed to stay awake. Leandra was safe now. I could hear Peaches barking, and the Hawkes had this under control.

“Shit, Mittens,” Varric said, what felt like mere moments later, edging over to me. I glanced up. The battle was over. Garrett, Malia, and Anders were seeing to Leandra. A large puddle of vomit, demon residue, and skeletal bits all but surrounded me. There wasn’t really a clean path for Varric to take, but he was trying.

“Varric,” I said. Or, rather, tried. Mostly all that came out was just a croak.

“I’d ask if you were okay,” he began, pointedly looking around, “but I think I already know the answer. Hey, Blondie! Help would be nice.”

I tried not to take too deep a breath as Varric helped me to stand, knowing it could only lead down paths I did not want to so much as ponder. Carefully, very carefully, he tugged me along until I was out of immediate danger of falling into the mess I’d made. My knees wobbled with every step.

“Maker, Vee,” Anders whispered. “I’ll do what I can here, but we really need to get you to the clinic.”

“Oh, Vir’era…” I looked up to see Leandra rushing to me. There was a new scar on her neck. It was fresh. For a moment, just enough to make my breath stutter in my lungs, I saw a shambling corpse in bridal wear. “You dear child. Thank you. Thank you, thank you. Let’s get you out of here.”

I lost a few seconds of time as I simply stared at Leandra, trying to make sure there were no other scars, that I hadn’t failed. Only the one on her neck remained, a shiny pink reminder.

Then, suddenly, I was lifted into the air. “Hup! Ah, you’re even lighter than I thought.” And it was Sebastian’s voice. And I fainted.

 

I’m not proud of that moment. Thankfully, no one seemed like they particularly cared to try reminding me of it constantly, either. Well, except Malia. “You know, I can’t even blame you,” she said, as soon as she noticed me stirring into wakefulness. The first words I heard, and she delivered them with a huge grin. “If Sebastian picked me up, I might just faint, too.”

“Fuck you,” I said, and even managed to be mostly comprehensible. Her grin became an all-out laugh, head thrown back and eyes scrunched shut. Standing nearby, Sebastian shook his head in similar amusement.

Varric patted the cot I was laying on hard enough to jostle me. “Glad to see you’re doing alright, Mittens. You had us worried, you know. Not very nice of you.”

“My cruelty knows no bounds,” I answered, still a bit disoriented. Varric snorted.

“Yeah, you’re a regular thug.”

“Leandra?” I asked, glancing around. We were in the clinic, which made sense—all of our healing supplies were here. The lyrium stash, too. I didn’t see Leandra, though.

Garrett put one solid hand on my shoulder. “She’s at home. She’s safe, thanks to you. Aveline is talking with her, taking her statement and all that official City Guard business. They’ll probably want to talk to you, too.”

“Is… but isn’t the blood mage…”

“We killed the bastard,” Malia said, her eyes turning very dark for a moment. “The things he did—they’re unthinkable. But he’s dead now.”

“Aveline just wants statements for official reasons. To make sure he had no accomplices, you understand. One of that sort is bad enough…” Garrett pursed his lips, expression distant. “Anyway, you can talk to her about all that later. Right now, you’re more important.”

Comfort settled like a cat in my chest, warm and furry and purring. “I’m alright.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Though I couldn’t see him, I recognized Anders’ voice. He was somewhere behind me. Above me? Directions when lying down are always confusing, it seems. “I need you to drink a few potions for me.”

Malia helped me to sit up, hovering like a worried hen. Anders made his way into my line of sight, a collection of potions in his arms. Even Garrett raised his eyebrows at that, but Anders didn’t notice.

“So many, truly?” Sebastian asked. “Are you certain that is wise?”

Anders spared only a moment’s glare. “Elfroot isn’t a cure-all, unlike the Chantry would have you believe.”

I recognized all the potions, anyways. That didn’t make them any more pleasant going down (two had small amounts of lyrium, which always seemed to make potions nearly painfully bitter), but at least I knew what it was I was drinking. “Thank you. All of you. I… would not have lasted much longer, if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”

“Peaches just wouldn’t leave well enough alone,” Malia said, obviously trying to be lighthearted and failing somewhat spectacularly. “I may not be able to speak dog the way you apparently can, but I do know Peaches. She never makes such a fuss for nothing.”

“She did find a bandit in the closet, once,” Garrett added. “But, in all seriousness, Vir’era, thank you. If you hadn’t been there—if you hadn’t insisted on things like you did… I don’t want to think about what might have happened. Nothing good. It would seem your paranoia was warranted.”

I avoided meeting anyone’s eyes, not sure that I could keep myself together if I did. I wanted to tell them about my journal. About everything. From the hand Anders put on my shoulder, I think he may have understood at least part of my silence.

I couldn’t tell them, though. I couldn’t explain it in a way they’d believe, and I didn’t have enough information to garner sharing outside of truly desperate circumstances.

 

The day the Arishok attacked Kirkwall, Aveline enlisted my help with him. She needed to get him to release two fugitives, and she knew he respected me almost as much as he respected the Hawkes—whose help she also asked for, but so did Isabela. I watched Isabela and Aveline shouting at each other, Garrett and Malia just waiting with crossed arms for explanations to be given. Anders stood beside me, about as amused as I was.

“Enough, you two,” Garrett said, eventually. “Aveline, your problem I understand. But Isabela, what, exactly, are you going on about?”

“I’m going to die,” she said, unnecessarily dramatically. “Got your attention now?”

“You already had it, but why don’t you explain exactly what you mean.”

She sighed and began to pace. “My relic. The one I lost, that Castillon’s going to kill me over. I found it. A man called Wall-Eyed Sam has it.”

“What is it?” Malia asked. “I mean, why would someone want it?”

“I don’t know,” Isabela answered, just too quickly. “It’s a book. It’s in a foreign tongue. Tevinter mages want it. Bring a sword. Or twelve.”

I crossed my arms. “Isabela, don’t lie.” Everyone’s eyes turned to me. Isabela opened her mouth, eyebrows drawn, but I cut her off. “Yes, I know what it is. And I know you do, too. It’s important enough to share.”

She glared at me. “And just how do you know, you little rat?” Funnily enough, she didn’t even know about that form of mine.

I couldn’t answer, but she had that glint in her eye that said she knew she was onto something, so I decided to use her favorite tactic, instead. “How do you think I know, pirate? How do I know anything? I pay attention. I have worked with the Qunari before. There aren’t many things that would keep the Arishok in a human city for this long.”

“Right.” She squinted, like she was perhaps able to see the little lies I had used to cover the truth, but Garrett’s voice calling her name brought her back to the conversation. “It’s a book,” she repeated. “Written by their philosopher. Koslin or Cousland or whatever.”

“You stole their holy book?” Malia demanded, eyes wide—and, dear Creators, I did hope that wasn’t pride shining through, but Malia had never been the most morally sound when it came to petty crimes like thievery and vandalism.

“Well, they didn’t have it. The Orlesians did. So it was easy.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Aveline said.

“She is a pirate,” Anders said. Aveline scoffed, like that wasn’t enough of an explanation. It was enough for me. Stealing is kind of what pirates do, after all—why would a holy book be exempt?

Malia looked about ready to demand all the sordid details. Garrett was visibly counting backwards from ten. I stepped in. “The book may at least alleviate our problems with the Qunari, even if it doesn’t solve them.”

“Fuck _everything_ about this,” Garrett groaned. “He’s right, though. Ugh. Aveline. You’re bringing Vir’era, right? To meet with the Arishok.”

“Yes. He knows almost as much about their customs as Fenris,” Aveline said, “but actually has the respect of the Arishok because of his work during the Blight.”

I saw Malia glance in the direction of Fenris’ house. “You should take Fen, too.” I couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking. “I’ll go with Isabela, help her and Merrill find this holy book. Merrill _is_ coming, right, Bela?”

Isabela’s lips drew together, but she nodded. (Did Merrill know the full truth?) “She insisted.” Would Isabela run, still? Or had things changed enough from what my journal predicted? Not everything had gone precisely as I expected, after all. Leandra was alive. Feynriel had asked for _me_. Maybe it was enough for Isabela to stay. Maybe Merrill was enough. I could only hope so.

“Garrett, what about you?” Aveline asked. “If I have to wait for Malia, I may as well wait for both of you. I highly doubt the Arishok will be pleased regardless, and he’s waited three years already. He can wait a few hours more.”

Garrett sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah, I’ll go with her, too. You, Fenris, and Vir’era can stall for time. Anders, come with me. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Someone should tell Varric and Sebastian,” Malia said. The reality of the situation was bringing her mood down now that we were more or less discussing battle strategy. “Varric will probably want to hear about Isabela’s ‘treasure’—thanks for that, by the way, Isabela. You better not make us clean up your mess alone, missy.”

She shifted. “If I’d _known_ I’d actually like this place, I might have chosen somewhere else.”

“It’s too late to change that now,” said Garrett. “Please, just… We’ll deal with whatever other consequences there are, but for now we need to see if we can’t fix this mess before it starts.”

“We should, um,” I started, faltering when everyone’s eyes immediately shot to me. “It’s just—the Arishok, he’s the military leader. He won’t be… amenable, really, to much. If there was a, uh, a Tamassran, we might be okay, but—what I’m saying is, we should be prepared for a fight. Um, or a battle.”

“Maker have mercy.” Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. You take Sebastian, then. Aveline, Vir’era, go fetch Fenris and Sebastian, then stall as long as you can. Isabela, fetch Merrill. Malia and I will meet you by the Hanged Man with Varric. First, though, I’m going to make sure Mother and everyone else stays inside.”

Nods all around. “Peaches,” Malia said, and the mabari stood at attention from where she’d been listening intently near the doorway to the parlor. “Stay home, okay? Protect Mother. Also protect Bodhan, Sandal, and Orana, but I’m more worried about Mother, honestly.”

Peaches barked, obviously understanding enough, and immediately began making patrols around the home. (Not entirely unusual—she did it at least once every night and anytime she heard an odd sound, to make sure there were no intruders.) Malia smiled after her. “Good girl.”

“Be safe and swift,” Aveline said to Malia, then glanced over at Anders. “Make sure they don’t kill themselves with this foolish mission.”

He nodded. “I rather prefer them alive and breathing, myself.”

“Right. Vir’era, let’s go. Maker preserve us all.”

 

Fenris was ready within moments of our appearance at his door. “Do you believe the Arishok can be reasoned with?” he asked Aveline.

“No,” she said, “but I have to try. Unless you have a better idea?”

“Prepare for battle.”

“That’s why I have you and Vir’era while the Hawkes are off with Isabela.”

Fenris snorted a bit, half-grinning, but nodded. We continued on to the Chantry. Sebastian took a bit longer to be ready, but he didn’t spend all his days in his armor the way Fenris (apparently) did. Still, he was ready quickly. Grand Cleric Elthina looked on with a frown. “You look as if you are preparing for war, not negotiations, Guard-Captain.”

“I’m preparing for both, Grand Cleric,” Aveline answered.

“Is there no peaceful solution?” She looked at me. “Warden, you say you have worked with Qunari before. Could this not be stopped?”

I paused for a moment, considering my options. My journal said so little about the Grand Cleric, and seemed to think similarly. Maybe, though, I had a chance… “There may have been, in the years before,” I said, measuring each word on my tongue, “but, unfortunately, the Arishok has reached the end of his patience, and Kirkwall has never been a shining example of shemlen cities.”

“ _His_ patience?” she echoed, eyebrows raised.

“Did you really think he was waiting for a ship?” I asked. She pursed her lips and looked away. Could I warn her? About the future? (Would she listen?) “Sometimes, the middle road is not an option, because those on either side have destroyed the possibility. Sometimes, we must pick a side. This time, it is easy. It may not always be so.”

Fenris squinted at me, but the Grand Cleric did not look at me again. Sebastian had a frown, like he knew I was trying to hint at the budding war between mages and Templars, like he knew I was trying to tell the Grand Cleric to do something that she would refuse to do. He said nothing.

The four of us walked quickly to the docks. In the Qunari compound, noises could be heard. The Qunari were restless, continually shouting orders and moving around. Weapons being sharpened whispered quietly above the din, raising every hair on my skin with my heartbeat.

We waited outside the compound for the Hawkes. Aveline paced back and forth. Fenris leaned against a wall, ostensibly as calm as can be. Sebastian’s fingers worked against his bow and armor, adjusting a belt here or wiping a smudge there. I tried not to stare, but it was more interesting than watching Fenris and more calming than watching Aveline.

“Are you nervous, too, Vir’era?” Sebastian asked, noticing my gaze. I nodded. “Does it ever get less nerve-wracking? You’ve been in more battles than I have. Perhaps not more fights, but those are usually less notable. You even fought a war. Does it get easier?”

“No,” I said. “And yes. Both. You become more sure in your own abilities and the abilities of your comrades, but every battle is a new chance to die, a new chance to lose everyone you know and love. And darkspawn are much simpler opponents. They cannot form true battle plans. They know only destruction and the Blight.”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there,” he said, and then we were back to waiting in tense silence. I started to wish I wore helmets. I’d never grown used to them; they always crushed my ears in unpleasant ways. But at least they’d offer more protection than my simple spells would. (Still, too late for this battle. Maybe I’d fix it for the next—and wasn’t _that_ a depressing thought.)

What felt like hours later, but couldn’t have been more than one, Malia and Garrett showed up. Isabela and Merrill were nowhere to be seen, but Anders and Varric were present. “Isabela ran,” Malia said, “ _with_ the…” She glanced at the Qunari standing guard by the compound gate. “The thing. Merrill’s gone after her.”

“We’re out of time,” Aveline said. “Come on!”

But the guards wouldn’t let us all come, and especially not armed. In the end, the Hawkes, Aveline, Fenris, and I were the only ones allowed entrance.

“Serahs Hawke,” the Arishok greeted. “Grey Warden.” I managed to mutter a greeting in return, but my voice was swept away quickly by the sheer anger and grand frustration of the Arishok in the face of Aveline’s demands for the fugitives. Nothing Garrett said calmed him. Nothing Malia offered. Nothing Aveline promised. It was all too little too late.

In the end, we were chased out of the compound with spears.

 

We scrambled to get to the Viscount’s Keep. Aveline’s guardsmen were there, and even though they’d probably already begun an appropriate response (she did run a tight ship), they were also still the best bet we had.

I tried not to feel too bad about the Qunari we killed. It was in self-defense; they were attacking our city. But, still. Most of my fights, as I’d told Sebastian, had been with darkspawn—and the people I’d killed in the past had often been little better. These Qunari, though, weren’t terrible people. They were simply following a terrible leader. I couldn’t help feeling bad. (I could not leave them alive, either; if they awoke too soon, other Kirkwall citizens might die, and that was a risk I couldn’t take.)

Carver and a handful of other Grey Wardens crossed our path once. Nathaniel wasn’t with them this time. In fact, other than Stroud, Carver was the only Warden I recognized—I had been gone from Vigil’s Keep too long. My bones ached even as they resonated with the taint in my fellows’ blood.

“Malia!” Carver called, when the coast was clear. “Garrett!” Malia didn’t even hesitate to throw her arms around him in a brief hug. He even hugged back. “Where’s Mother? I heard… conflicting stories.”

“She’s at home,” Malia said. “Peaches is with her.” I watched Carver visibly deflate with relief and felt never so thankful that I’d made that risky decision. Any scars I had were worth it, to know that I’d saved this family from more unnecessary heartbreak. I’d do it all again.

“Thank the Maker.”

“Carver, we cannot stay,” Stroud interrupted. “I am sorry, my friends, but we must go. Our duty takes us elsewhere. Whatever is happening here… I wish you the best of luck.”

“We’ll fucking need it,” Garrett said, but he nodded in what I assumed was acceptance. “Be safe, Carver.” Malia echoed the sentiment, and soon they were off, heading in the direction we’d come as we went in the direction they had.

 

We fought our way through Kirkwall, a trek I knew we’d reverse in only a few years’ time. Fenris led the way, his greatsword carving a bloody path. Malia danced in his shadow, her daggers flashing out only when her victim least expected it. Already, so much of the city was on fire, so many people dead and dying, but there was little we could do to stop the flames. Even magic cannot quell them easily, and we would not have the mana to spare.

Sebastian and Varric’s arrows did almost as much damage as Fenris—more, when they caught a throat or weapon-arm. Anders and I focused on keeping our friends standing and fighting—shields and healing and anything else. Garrett fought fire with fire.

We were all sweaty and covered in various things better not thought on by the time we made it to Hightown. And, there—there she was. Meredith Stannard, out of the Gallows for probably the first time in years, it would seem. Cullen was at her side, and while Meredith spoke to the Hawkes (deliberately not looking in my direction), he came to me. “What happened?” he asked. “We knew the Qunari would not remain peaceful for long, but this…”

“Everything ends eventually,” I said. How was I supposed to explain? “Today’s victim was the Arishok’s patience with our fair city.” Cullen snorted.

“He’s gone to the Viscount’s Keep,” Cullen said. “That’s where we’re headed. I’m not sure how we’ll get in, but the Knight-Commander says we have no choice. They’re taking hostages of the nobility, and it also seems to be their gathering point.”

“I might have a few ideas,” I told him. But by then, Malia and Garrett had reached a tense agreement with Meredith, who was not oblivious to Garrett’s use of magic. She spared me only a half-second’s glance. Whatever thoughts came to her mind, I didn’t know them. They were not visible on her face.

With Templars all but surrounding us, I was understandably jumpy. But we didn’t really have many options, and they were there to help. I couldn’t see any faces behind the helmets they wore (and, on that note, why wasn’t Cullen wearing a helmet?), so I had no way of knowing for sure, but it felt like they were looking at me.

We entered the courtyard before the Viscount’s Keep to find Orsino on the ground among several dead mages. I ignored the stench, and soon Orsino and Meredith were arguing about how, exactly, we were meant to get into the Keep.

Garrett looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept glancing around at the Templars. Malia, eventually, took it upon herself. “Could you, maybe, just maybe, stop arguing for five seconds?”

Two sets of raised eyebrows met her query. Probably more behind the Templar helmets. Not many people (myself excluded) talked to the Knight-Commander that way. Malia seemed to have some kind of death wish—but Meredith just crossed her arms and jerked her head once.

“What do you propose, then, Serah Hawke?” she asked.

“Well,” Malia said, drawing the word out a bit. “We can’t just attack the front doors. There are a few too many qunari for that.”

“Are your friends not capable fighters? You have quite a number yourself, and combined with my Templars, I do not think these qunari would stand a chance.”

Malia gave a short laugh in response. “Ha! Right, no. I mean, I don’t doubt that we could take them, if we wanted to, but that’s kind of asking for trouble, and I don’t exactly want to die just yet. So we’ll go with Orsino’s idea. With the distraction.”

“A wise choice,” Orsino said, and, yes, that was definitely a smirk he sent to Meredith. She scowled back at him, but when did she do anything other than scowl? (She must have been a petulant child.)

So Orsino and Meredith distracted the qunari at the doors while the Hawkes led our group along the shadows. Cullen met my gaze very briefly when I glanced at him on the small battlefield, and gave me the tiniest nod. Orsino did the same for Malia.

Of course, it couldn’t be _that_ easy. There were more qunari waiting inside the entrance hall of the Keep. Hopefully the blood wouldn’t stain the marble. The rugs were doomed, though.

I let myself fall to the back of the group. I was able to do more good back there, working in synchronization with Anders. There wasn’t much trouble to take down the qunari here; obviously, the better-trained men were either out in the city itself, or with the Arishok.

The Arishok, who still managed to behead Viscount Dumar. I tried to feel sad about the head that we found as soon as we entered the throne room, but I just couldn’t manage it. He hadn’t been a bad ruler, certainly, but I hadn’t particularly cared for him, either. He was almost as ineffective as Elthina.

“Shanedan, Hawkes.”

Boss fight time. Literally. Nice.


	26. FINALLY IT'S THE END OF ACT II HOT DAMN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this chapter. i finished it before the election happened. but i've been trying to get my shit together so that i can change my name & various other matters since that disaster, so the next chapter may be late. i may need to take a brief hiatus while i get all that taken care of.
> 
> if you want to talk, about the election or about the story or about anything else, i'm on tumblr. same username. my ask box is open, and i'm willing to listen.

The Arishok began to lecture the Hawkes. He didn’t get very far—and not because of Malia, this time. The doors burst open behind us, for probably the umpteenth time that night, and a book sailed over to thunk somewhat magnificently against Anders. Actually, if I’m to be truthful, the book was both heavy enough and thrown with enough force as to actually topple him over.

There was a moment of pure shock. Then, “Sorry! Oh, it hit Anders. I’m not that sorry, then.”

That was Merrill’s voice. I whirled around to gape at her. In fact, everyone in the room did, resulting in a loud rustle of fabric and air. “We made it in time, I think,” Merrill said, somewhat unaware of the stares. Isabela stood next to her with a hand on her hip and an eyebrow raised.

“You don’t say, kitten.” Isabela smiled, tossed some hair over her shoulders, and strutted into the room. Merrill trotted after her. Both were entirely too unconcerned for the situation.

“Thanks for that,” Anders said.

“The Tome of Koslun,” the Arishok said.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Aveline said.

The nobles erupted into a brief ruckus. It would’ve been a long one, I’m sure, except that the Arishok pointed one of his axes at Isabela. Quite frankly, I couldn’t really understand what he said for the next five minutes, because my sense of comprehension self-destructed for a short period of time while my anxiety kept me rooted to the spot. Not the best time for it to have happened. In fact, it was really shitty. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t understand a single word.

Varric would have me believe that it basically went like this:

Arishok: “Return the tome!”

Garrett: “You can have it. Here. Please leave.”

Arishok: “I’m taking the thief.”

Merrill: “No!”

Malia: “Yeah, no.”

Arishok: “There is no other option by the Qun. The thief must be punished.”

Malia: “We’ll take care of that, thanks.”

Arishok: “I don’t trust you.”

Fenris: “Hey, how about a duel.”

Arishok: “Indeed.”

Garrett: “Fenris, shut up.”

Malia: “It might work.”

Garrett: “Malia, shut the _fuck_ up.”

And then the Arishok lunged for Isabela with both axes. That part I did notice. Even if I hadn’t been able to breathe or speak or comprehend anything beyond a pure panic, I at least could still see what was happening around me. So when I saw the Arishok lunge for Isabela, the part of me that had been a Grey Warden for a year managed to react fast enough to help.

Not to save her life—because she was fast enough to do that on her own and didn’t need my help—but I did slow the Arishok with a quick paralysis glyph. It wasn’t a powerful one, as I didn’t have the mental wherewithal for something better. Still…

Isabela ducked with time to spare thanks to my glyph, and the entire hall became a chaotic mess. A few of the nobles knew how to fight, and I saw more than one dagger pulled from sleeves or skirts. Most didn’t, though, and they ran quickly to the edges of the room.

I cast shields over myself and my friends first, then began herding the cowering Kirkwall nobility into one area. Maybe it’d make them easier to slaughter. That didn’t matter. I could cast one large shield over the whole group this way, and they even seemed mostly thankful for it. (Though, not all of them made it out alive. A few bodies were on the floor already when we entered, and more only joined them as we fought.)

The fight was nothing like what I expected. It was almost as desperate as when the darkspawn had attacked Amaranthine at the Mother’s behest, but instead of mindless or confused creatures, we fought well-trained qunari. Even though I’d spent time fighting at Sten’s side, and had fought Tal-Vashoth on the Wounded Coast more than once, I had not grown accustomed to the sheer size difference.

Admittedly, I was short. I ducked under arms and weapons far more easily than most of my companions. But since I was the only thing between any qunari that came this way and a group of nobles unable to fight, I couldn’t simply rely on dodging everything.

I dodged a sword, leaving a paralyzing glyph in my wake, and used Maleficent’s blade to stab the qunari who’d charged us. It wasn’t a deep enough wound to kill on impact, probably, but that was mostly due to the fact that I, as a mage, had never studied the best places to stab someone in order to kill them.

I tended to rely more on things like fireballs, which I used on the next pair. It only hit one, but the magic and the fire surprised the other enough to send him scattering backwards and onto Aveline’s sword. She withdrew it and nodded to me, and we hunkered down in front of the nobles together.

Some of the qunari were obviously more used to mages. I knew there was a Saarebas somewhere nearby, as I could feel the way that their magic ripped through the Veil, but I couldn’t spare the attention for anything beyond the immediate expanse of floor in front of me.

Working with Aveline made it harder to hit opponents with magic, because I didn’t want to catch Aveline by mistake, but combined, we were better than on our own. I set up a perimeter of glyphs, forcing the qunari who dared approach us to go straight for Aveline.

She was much taller than me, and almost a match for some of the very short qunari, but even she was at a visible height disadvantage. Occasionally, her shield would shift to her customary angle, nearly exposing her to attack. A few qunari took advantage of this. One even drew a long line up her arm, cutting the leather there. No blood spilled, yet, but I strengthened her shields anyway, not wanting to take that chance.

“Vir’era! Duck!” I dropped low. A spear flew where my head had been. Arrows challenged it, heading the other way. When I followed their path, I saw a qunari fall, one of Sebastian’s arrows in his head.

I couldn’t spare the time to thank him, though. The qunari were changing tactics, converging somewhere in the center of the room. It was a mess of bodies there, both living and dead. Aveline turned to give me a brief nod before heading into the fray, and I hovered at the perimeter. Casting would be too risky. I watched instead.

Sebastian came to stand near me, also hesitant to fire into such a volatile crowd. “Is that… Garrett?” he asked. “Fighting the Arishok?”

It was hardly a question worth asking. There were only two human mages in the room, and Anders wasn’t exactly easily confused with Garrett. As such, it could only be Garrett in the very center of the pit, using his staff as a physical weapon as much as he used his magic. I couldn’t see Malia, but she was doubtlessly nearby.

As the Arishok brought one axe crashing down towards Garrett, Isabela flitted around the other qunari trying to take him down. I caught an actual smile on her face as she downed one after another—a dagger in the neck here, one in the back of the knee there, indiscriminately keeping them off Garrett’s back.

Aveline, despite all the animosity she usually displayed for Isabela, followed up on the pirate’s attacks with shouting and distractions, keeping her free to make sure Garrett stayed alive. Fenris swept heads from shoulders the way most cut hair.

But the true battle… Garrett actually _punched_ the Arishok, his fist encased in some kind of primal energy I couldn’t recognize through the teeming mass. It didn’t do much but draw blood, but that was enough to anger the Arishok, and Garrett was nearly impaled. Nearly. He got off with a deep gash to his side, one that no magical shielding could have fully blocked. I prepared to head in, intending to heal him, but Anders beat me to it.

Or perhaps it was Justice. There were glowing cracks in his skin, blue spirit-light leaking out and making him seem every bit the ethereal being of Vengeance I knew he held inside. I couldn’t see his eyes. I didn’t know if it was Anders in control or Justice. But whichever it was, Garrett was healed enough to keep fighting.

Sebastian put a hand on my shoulder. I glanced over at him. “We must stay back,” he said, glancing at the nobles cowering behind us. “Someone has to keep them safe.”

And we were their last hope of defense. Not that they seemed to be in much trouble. There wasn’t a single qunari in sight that even looked their way. But Sebastian had a point, and I nodded. He didn’t take his hand off my shoulder. I didn’t ask him to.

It was hard to follow exactly what happened between Garrett and the Arishok. My view wasn’t exactly clear. One moment, Garrett would be making significant headway. The next I saw him, he would be doubled over. I muttered prayers to Mythal, to Elgar’nan, to Andruil: Protector, keep him alive; Avenger, let him win; Hunter, guide his hand.

And then, almost all at once, the battlefield cleared. The fighting all but stopped. The qunari were not all dead, but they backed away, watching as their leader began to falter. I couldn’t tell how much of the blood was the Arishok’s and how much was simply debris from those who’d been caught by his reach, but the man was soaked in red.

So was Garrett. He wiped his face, leaving a long streak of red over his nose and cheeks. They stared at each other for ages and for second. Then, dashing from out of shadows with daggers so very bloody that they seemed to be made of red steel, Malia leapt upon the Arishok’s back, sinking her daggers deep into his shoulders. He screamed.

Garrett took the opportunity and forced the blade of his staff through the exposed underside of the Arishok’s jaw with such force that the tip broke through his skull, pushing bits of unidentifiable matter and bone out to rain on Malia. One piece caught her cheek and settled there as the Arishok fell to his knees.

The Arishok was dead.

The doors burst open.

 

Meredith pronounced both Malia and Garrett as Champions of Kirkwall, in the end. Without any way to say decisively that one deserved it more, and with all that the pair had done for the city in the few years they’d lived there, it was reasonable enough a title.

Varric laughed for days anytime someone thanked him. Aveline used so much of her time organizing funerals for those killed during the Qunari uprising and recruiting to restore the numbers of the city guard that she didn’t have a moment to spare for her friends for months. It was fine, though; we helped her where we could. Most people wanted protection for the funerals, anyhow, and since she couldn’t spare the manpower, we volunteered.

The people of Kirkwall loved us. Even me. Even Merrill. Even Fenris. I went to the clinic in Darktown one day to find that someone had donated piles of bandages. Another time, Cullen brought me a package he said was ‘a gift from some of the Templars.’ He claimed he didn’t know what it was, and that he’d only been asked to deliver it since he knew me.

I didn’t open it until he left, because I could tell, even wrapped, that it was lyrium.

Most of the time, none of us knew what to do with this newfound recognition. It mostly centered around Garrett and Malia, to be sure, but people knew all our faces. We’d never made much of an attempt to hide. Especially not me—I was a Grey Warden, after all, and though most of Kirkwall was unaware that I’d fought in the Fifth Blight, they’d had enough grudging respect for me through that alone.

When I visited the Chantry for the first time since the uprising, it was nowhere as empty as it had been most of my previous visits. Perhaps the people of Kirkwall had rediscovered their Maker after the disaster. I couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or a bad one—certainly, it was good for people to renew their faith!

But for more to attend this particular Chantry… Would there still be so many here in three years? How many lives would be lost when Anders finally cracked? I tried to talk to him, sometimes, about what more could be done for the mages of Thedas, but he didn’t want to listen to what I had to say. In his shoes, I probably wouldn’t, either.

I walked to Grand Cleric Elthina. She stood at Andraste’s feet and smiled at me when I approached. “Warden Vir’era,” she greeted, “it is good to see you again.”

“Aneth ara, Grand Cleric,” I replied. She never seemed to like it much when I spoke Elvish, but I didn’t care. “I see more people have come to the Chantry of late.”

“Indeed. I am thankful that they have come, though I do wish it had been under better circumstances.” Elthina gazed out upon the people praying in various parts of the Chantry. Many were standing below us, among the many red candles. “Is there something I can help you with?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t entirely sure why I’d come to the Chantry. There were better things for me to be doing. Things which would more directly help the people of Kirkwall. Like restoring the parts of the Alienage that had been destroyed and were otherwise being ignored. (If the Alienage was ever repaired by the humans of the city, I was certain it would come last.)

“Then perhaps you would help me,” she said. “I trust you know that Sebastian has had… a fickle relationship with the Maker. Perhaps you can speak sense to him. He is again unsure of the path he should take, and will not listen to me.”

“I can try.” It would be better for Malia or Garrett to speak with him, probably. They’d been doing so most of the time as yet. From what I heard, Garrett was encouraging Sebastian to return and reclaim his birthright in Starkhaven. Exactly what Malia had to say on the matter, I didn’t know. Most likely she was as certain as Sebastian himself.

“Thank you, my dear. He’s in his room at the moment. I believe you know the way,” Elthina said, as much a dismissal as anything else. I nodded politely once more and walked to Sebastian’s room in the Chantry. It wasn’t his room alone—he shared it with two of the Brothers, but he was usually the only one there during the day.

The door was open when I approached, and I could see Sebastian sitting on his bed, polishing his bow with a frown on his face. “Sebastian?” I called, unwilling to enter without invitation.

He glanced up, eyebrows high in surprise. “Vir’era,” he said. “This is unexpected. Come in.” He gestured to the lone chair of the room, and I sat in it, pulling it closer to his bed so we could talk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The Grand Cleric sent me,” I admitted. “I don’t know that I am the best option, since she says you are having trouble with your religion and your duties, but perhaps she knows things I do not.”

“I see.” He sighed, drawing his cloth in a long sweep down the wood of his bow. “Garrett would have me return to Starkhaven. He seems to believe my duty to the people there is greater than my duty to the Maker. I… am uncertain, but his words do have merit. Malia simply said I should do what I think will help the most people.”

“And what do you think that is?” I asked.

He shrugged, almost uncharacteristically, and met my eyes with his own, arresting me entirely. “I do not know. A Brother in the Chantry can help many, but can only help those who come to him. A Prince can help an entire city… or hurt one in the process.”

“A Keeper does the same,” I said. “They are like priest and prince in one: they Keep the clan and they Keep the old ways, our religion and our history. A bad Keeper does only one. A terrible Keeper runs their clan to destruction.”

“And a good Keeper?”

“A good Keeper leads and listens in equal measure.”

“What would you recommend I do, then?” Sebastian asked. “I am not a Keeper. Neither a Brother nor a Prince can hold the same role.”

“Would you be a bad Prince?” I countered. He tilted his head at me, the light catching his copper skin in a way that made my heart flutter. “I admit I do not know a great deal about the Chantry, or precisely how much influence a Brother can have, but it is my opinion that you have the chance to do far more good as a Prince. What is stopping you?”

He looked away, and I immediately missed having his beautiful blue eyes focused on me. “A Prince can be mislead and corrupted far more easily than a Brother. A Prince cannot trust even those closest to him. You heard what happened to my family. It could happen again, because nobles are a blood- and power-thirsty lot. I cannot guarantee the safety of a city that way.”

“You cannot guarantee it at all as a Brother, either.” He hummed. “As a Prince, you can set an example. You have strong faith, Sebastian. It does not take knowing you to see that. You would not be corrupted so easily, and you could better assure the people of Starkhaven if you took up the mantle of your father. They need a steady hand where now they have none.”

“And what of Kirkwall? Viscount Dumar was hardly corrupted, and still he fell.”

I looked down at my hands. “Would you let the fear of failing stop you from trying at all? I did not think you’d allow such, but I’ve been wrong before.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Eventually, I looked back up at him, only to find that he was looking very closely at me. My face grew hot, and I hoped he couldn’t tell. “You have a point,” he said, at last. “I could bring more change, more good from the position of Prince than from Brother. Perhaps I could even help those who are otherwise ignored.”

“Like who?” I asked. That list could be very long or very short.

“Mages, for one,” he said. “And elves.”

“It would be good to have an ally with the ability to actually bring about the changes we need. It’s not something we can do alone.”

He smiled. I felt my heart skip a painful beat. “It is something to think about, certainly. And change is needed. Perhaps Starkhaven will follow in Ferelden’s footsteps. I hear they’ve an elven Bann now.”

“Her name is Shianni,” I said. “She’s the Bann of Denerim’s Alienage.

“A start,” he said.

“A start,” I agreed.

 

_Sten,_

_Or has your rank changed? It has been so long since last I heard from you, my friend. I hope you are well. You will likely already know by the time this letter reaches you, but the Arishok is dead. I would apologize, but I find I am not sorry for his death. I am sorry that it became necessary, and that the Tome of Koslun was ever wrongfully stolen by someone I know._

_Isabela… we are dealing with her. She returned the Tome. It is not enough for the trouble she caused, I know, but it is a start. I hope you will forgive me for not sending her to you. She is a friend of mine, and would not… Well. I will ensure she never makes such a mistake again. Pirate she may be, Isabela does have at least some kind of moral compass, and I will implore her to make better use of it in the future._

_I have gathered what swords I’ve found of your fallen people. I do not have the money to send them with this letter, but I shall keep them safe until someone can collect them. Please tell someone to contact me or the Hawkes for the return of the swords._

_If I am not mistaken, a new Arishok will be named soon. Or do you call it something else? I saw no crown, so crowned seems unlikely. I hope all goes well with it, regardless._

_Please write back when you are able._

_Vir’era, 9:34 Dragon_

_Vir’era,_

_Though once I was Sten, now I am Arishok. I will send no men for this thief, as the Tome of Koslun is safe once more, but nor will I allow her safety if she comes near to Seheron. Give her this warning, if you wish._

_I will send someone for the swords of the Qunari who fell with the previous Arishok when we have the time to spare him. Thank you, kadan, for collecting those you can find. I will ask that a reasonable reward be sent as recompense, as you are not of the Qun._

_Do not feel burdened by the mistakes of the previous Arishok. He acted outside his limits. Though he could not return without the Tome, and though most Qunari would find Kirkwall as much a cesspool as he did, we hold no intent to begin the war that would cause with the Free Marches. Kirkwall may yet stay in human hands._

_I thank you for your words. I enjoy your letters, though I cannot return them often. My duties are many now, and the Qun must come before any personal ties. You understand. You are basalit-an._

_Arishok, 9:34 Dragon_

_Vir’era,_

_I’m back safe in Honnleath now. I have been for a few days, actually, but it’s been busy as we prepare for the harvest, so I haven’t had a chance to write until now. Please make sure Cullen knows I’m back, too. I don’t have the coin or time to send two letters right now._

_How are things? Has much changed since I left? I hope you and Cullen have kept up the sparring. He didn’t say much, but I can tell that it helped him. He’s always felt better when he has a new challenge to overcome. I don’t think Meredith is a good influence. (Don’t tell him that. We’ve already argued about it a few times, and I said I wouldn’t bring it up again.)_

_Write back as soon as you can._

_Mia Rutherford, 9:34 Dragon_

_Mia,_

_I apologize for the lateness of this letter. A lot has happened since you left to return to Honnleath, and I didn’t have a moment to spare, it seemed._

_The most important thing is that the Qunari have left Kirkwall. I won’t go too into detail, but they attacked the city, and we had to fight to get it back. Garrett and Malia killed the Arishok, in the end. (There’s far more to it than just that, because their holy book was stolen by Isabela, then returned by her, but to say more would leave no parchment for other things.)_

_Cullen and I do still spar when we both have the time for it. It’s been a couple weeks since the last opportunity, but that makes sense. There’s been a lot of restoration needing done since the uprising, and the Templars are doing much of that. I suppose I should be thankful, because there is much that would not have been done without their help, but I worry that Meredith will use it as an excuse to overstep her bounds._

_Already she is stepping in for the Viscount we should have. When Kirkwall will have a new Viscount, I do not know. Soon, I hope, but I do not believe it will be so easy…_

_I’ve told Cullen you’re home safe. Hopefully he’ll write soon. If he hasn’t written by the month’s end, I’ll scold him for you._

_Vir’era, 9:34 Dragon_


	27. back in action!!!!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAACK HOLY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
> 
> details on why it took so long [HERE](http://dinosaurdragon.tumblr.com/post/159322541646/for-those-of-you-who-read-twots)
> 
> TL;DR? life decided to happen a lot. it's still kind of happening a lot, but i can write at least a little, so.
> 
> not sure exactly how often i'll be able to post, but i'm gonna try to do every other week. not sure how long that will last for reason explained in the post linked above. i'm damn well gonna try though!! fuckin love writing. fuckin missed this shit. goddamn.

Time changes all things; the next three years were no exception. It was hard for me to keep track of everything, but I noticed Keeper Marethari close herself off from the clan, spending more and more time alone in her aravel or praying up on the mountain. I think, between Feynriel’s departure for Tevinter and Merrill’s continued refusal to return to the clan, she started to lose hope. She spent some time teaching me the lore Clan Sabrae held dearest, but… Well, there was a distance I couldn’t cross.

And I spent a great deal of my own time doing research on rituals like the one that had been used to enter Feynriel’s sleeping mind and the one used on Connor during the Blight. Or trying to. Some of the things I wanted to know were hard to get ahold of. Even with Orsino’s help, accessing the Gallows’ library was… difficult. I went in person only when necessary, choosing to avoid Meredith as much as I could.

Which grew harder, as Meredith stopped hiding in the Gallows so much, the way she had my first few years in Kirkwall. Instead, apparently with Elthina’s (“temporary”) blessing, she and her Templars spent a great deal of time in Kirkwall proper. I saw more than one argument break out between a Templar patrol and Aveline’s guardsmen.

Garrett took to the position of Champion with far more grace than Malia did, which surprised exactly no one. Not that Malia used or wore it poorly; she simply hadn’t the personality to schmooze with nobles the way Garrett managed to most of the time.

But… Garrett came to me, sometimes, to ask if I knew how to help Anders, how to help Justice. I couldn’t. I couldn’t help them. Sometimes I would be talking to Anders, and his face would go blank suddenly, and I’d know—Justice was upset about something. Sometimes Justice would simply take over. Whatever it was that Anders had done to meld the two of them…

It seemed like it was unraveling. And, in the process, it was breaking them.

I received a letter from Leliana one day. Two letters, sort of. One was addressed to me. The other was a copy of a letter from the Divine to Grand Cleric Elthina. Essentially, they said Leliana would be coming soon, because the Divine was concerned about the state of Kirkwall’s Circle. ‘Sister Nightingale’ was to investigate. The Divine wanted Elthina to send someone to talk with the Sister. I knew Elthina would send Sebastian and the Hawkes.

Leliana asked me to come. I doubted Elthina would like that. We had gotten along fine for a while, but recently… Perhaps I had spoken to Sebastian in ways Elthina did not like, had suggested to him ideas she thought were against the Maker’s will or something. Either way, she no longer seemed to look on me with the same benign thoughts.

(I wondered if she knew about my friendship with Cullen. It had only grown; we met weekly to spar or play chess—which I was terrible at—and people had begun to notice. It wouldn’t be shocking if the Grand Cleric had heard rumors.)

Sebastian greeted me with a smile when I came to the Chantry after receiving the letter; I smiled back, managing after the years to stop blushing any time he so much as glanced in my direction.

Elthina seemed surprised at my presence. “Warden Vir’era,” she greeted. “It has been some time since we last had the pleasure of your company.”

“Aneth ara, Grand Cleric.” She always seemed upset when I used Elvish to speak with her, like I was committing some minor blasphemy. Somehow, I didn’t find it as discouraging as she likely hoped. “I’ve heard Sister Nightingale is in town.”

Her eyebrows raised. “You know this Sister?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, trying to be very casual about it all. “I’ve met her before. She sent me a letter, asking that I go with whoever you choose to send to meet with her.”

“I see.” For a moment, she just looked me over, assessing. “I have sent for the Champions. They do love this city well, after all.”

Precisely as I expected. “That they do,” I agreed, and then gestured to a pew. “I’ll sit there and wait, if you don’t mind, your Grace.”

She voiced no objections, so I sat and waited, meditating quietly in the serene warmth of the Chantry. When the Hawkes came in, I didn’t bother intruding upon their conversation with the Grand Cleric. There was no reason to. I knew what she’d ask of them, and if I knew them, they’d agree.

Turns out, I was right, surprising exactly no one. Malia tapped my shoulder as she and Garrett headed out of the Chantry, and I followed along. Sebastian came, too, and I began to suspect that they had questions for me. Especially since they led me all the way to their estate with only minimal small talk.

And again, I was right. Malia turned to me the second we were seated in the parlor with the kind of face that can only be described as ‘delightedly expectant.’ “So?” she asked, like I was supposed to know what she was getting at without any context.

“So…?” I repeated.

“Sister Nightingale!” she exclaimed, flapping a hand at me. “Who is she? The Grand Cleric said you knew her. Is she really the Divine’s Left Hand? Is that even a real thing? I thought it was only a rumor.”

“Oh!” Was I allowed to say it? Leliana hadn’t exactly forbidden it. “Well, she doesn’t want Elthina to know, but…”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” Malia just about jumped from her seat, bouncing in obvious excitement. “Tell me it’s a yes!”

“Yes?”

“ _Yes!_ ” She pumped one fist in the air, then whirled on Garrett, poking him in the chest with one gauntleted finger. That had to hurt. (He didn’t react.) “You owe me a sovereign!”

“I never agreed to this bet,” Garrett said, but fished out a sovereign anyway. The scene was very familiar to me by now. I wondered if they actually ever bothered keeping track of whose money was whose; it had always seemed to me that they simply pooled their resources.

“What can you tell us about this Sister?” Sebastian asked, ignoring Malia’s crowing.

I shrugged. “What would you like to know?”

“Is Nightingale her real name?” Malia asked immediately, bouncing forward in her seat.

“No. Her name is Leliana.”

“Leliana?” Garrett repeated, looking at me with eyebrows high on his forehead. “As in _the_ Leliana? Who traveled with the Hero of Ferelden? Who you said sometimes sang with you? Who used to live in Lothering? _That_ Leliana?”

I laughed at his surprise. “Of course. Why else would I know her? She works for Divine Justinia now, though.”

“As the Left Hand?” Malia demanded, leaning impossibly further forward. “Is that really a real thing that really exists? Cloak-and-dagger and poison and spies and everything?”

“Yes?” She was far more surprised by this than I had expected. Didn’t everyone know about it? Something in me said people would simply accept this as logical, yet… Malia seemed surprised. Then again, there were plenty of elves in Alienages who didn’t believe the Dalish truly existed, so perhaps it was merely a factor in the slow communications. “I don’t know how much of that she does beyond the spying. She’s something of a spymaster.” Or, well, she would be. For the Inquisition. Surely she already was one?

Malia flopped back into her chair with a wide-eyed, jaw-dropped look on her face. “Hot damn,” she said. “And here I thought all Chantry Sisters were at least as useless as Elthina.”

“Elthina isn’t useless!” Sebastian protested. Malia just waved him off.

“Leliana will be waiting for us in the Viscount’s throne room tonight,” I said. “She… will likely have information about what the Divine thinks about Kirkwall.”

Malia huffed a little. Garrett pursed his lips. “What do you recommend we tell her?” he asked. “She’s your friend, after all. Can we even make any difference if the Divine has already decided upon another Exalted March?”

My jaw tensed for a moment, and I had to force myself to relax once more. “Religion has no place in war. I don’t know that the Divine would see it the same way, but…” Sighing, I looked down at the low table in front of us. “War will come. That… at this point, it is inevitable. Kirkwall is already at war, even if no one will acknowledge it. I don’t know that anything we say can change what the Divine will do, what Leliana will say.”

“What do you mean, war will come?” Malia asked. “I can see how Kirkwall is there, but…”

“It’s worst here.” My robes had a strange stain on the skirt I’d not noticed before. It didn’t look like blood. What was it? “Meredith extends her hand too far; what apostates have stayed react too strongly. Even Cullen sees that things cannot continue this way, and he—you know he has such faith in the Templar Order, and especially the Chantry.

“But with Elthina refusing to condemn either side, with the Templars assuming it means her support for them and the rebel mages insistent that Justice must somehow be served…” I swallowed. Was it Justice or Vengeance? Did Anders even yet know? Did anyone?

“You said it’s worst here,” Garrett prompted, quietly. “Are you saying it’s bad elsewhere, too?”

Slowly, I nodded. I smoothed my robes upon my lap, noting how conspicuous the stain was then. “I’ve mentioned Ferelden’s Circle before, how it… How it was nearly destroyed by a blood mage. Uldred. He was so tired of the Chantry, so inspired by tales of Tevinter, and he’s not alone.” They wouldn’t know much about the fraternities. I barely knew anything of them.

“Starkhaven’s Circle was burned the same year my family was murdered,” Sebastian said. “I would not be surprised if a mage was responsible, acting out in the same way as this Uldred.”

Garrett looked about to argue the point of mages, but I stopped him. “It’s certainly possible. What I worry for is not that a war will start. I worry that religion will be involved.”

“Why are you so hung up on that in particular?” Malia asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want a holy war any more than the next person, but you seem resigned to the war part, just not the holy part.”

“I’m Dalish, Malia,” I said. “Ara Elvhen. Dirthavaren… the Dales, that is meant to be my home. Because of the Chantry and its holy wars, it is not. Because of the Chantry and its holy wars, my people continue to suffer. Either we live in poverty and servitude among shemlen, or we are forced to travel endlessly, never staying in one place too long, lest your people decide we are suspicious and unwelcome.”

As I spoke, my hands fisted in the fabric of my robes, one hand clenching painfully over the stain there. Still, I met her eyes, and Garrett’s, and Sebastian’s. For a long moment, everything was silent. Then, Sebastian ducked his head.

“You have more reason than most to fear this war, don’t you?” He shifted, and the belt-buckle face of Andraste he wore seemed to stare at me, expressionless and cold-white. “It is too easy for us to forget.”

“You’re different,” Malia said. It made my lips purse, but she shook her head. “No, I mean—I’m agreeing with Sebastian. It’s easy for us to forget, because we—I—Garrett, help me out here.”

Garrett leaned in. He managed not to seem intimidating, somehow, despite the beard and intense look on his face. “You already know why we forget,” he said to me, and I did. I didn’t need them to explain; they forgot because they were _human_ , in all senses that could take. Because it had been such for their entire lives. Because it was easy to forget things that seemed normal. Because they weren’t Dalish. “We’ll try to help, if we can. You’re right. We don’t need another Exalted March. If it comes to war—when, I suppose—things will be hard enough without the Chantry picking sides.”

“But the Templars are already sure that the Chantry has,” Malia said, somberly. “It doesn’t take a genius to work out that they all believe Elthina agrees at least nominally with Meredith, but just hasn’t said so for some political bullshit reason.”

“And the mages believe their cause is just. Most believe the Grand Cleric will see that, too, and talk the Templars down,” Garrett added. He knew more than I did about the subject. I knew he sometimes attended secret meetings with Anders, the way I never had, never could, not with my precarious position.

“What does the Knight-Captain think?” Sebastian asked. I nearly jumped at the words, turning to him with wide eyes. “You know him best, Vir’era. Surely he has given you some insight to the Knight-Commander’s thoughts.”

“No one knows what Meredith’s thinking,” I answered. I swallowed, at last unclenching my hands, but only in favor of twisting them together. “Not even Cullen, and he knows her best. He… he has not said anything specific to me, but I know he is cautious of her. Even he thinks she goes too far, if only because it drives apostates to further desperation. He still believes in Circles and Templars and the Chantry, but he does not believe in Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.”

“That’s enough for me.” Sebastian stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I would like to speak with Elthina. I’ll return here at dusk.”

He was gone before anyone could ask what he intended to achieve by talking to Elthina. I could only hope he did not accidentally stir up more trouble—for himself or for the rest of us.

 

After dusk, when the last rays of sunlight slipped beyond view of Hightown, the four of us (and Peaches) made our way to the Viscount’s Keep. It was eerie: completely empty, and utterly silent. Even the guards’ quarters emitted no sound. The perfect night for an ambush.

Which, of course, is precisely what happened. Mages slipped out around us more silently than cats, and we were surrounded before we could draw our weapons. Their leader, who had a glint in her eye that I recognized from the caves of Sundermount, from Uldred, shouted something. I was distracted. I don’t know what she said. All I could think about was Littlefoot.

None of these mages had been there, and there were fewer of them than the demons they summoned, but they all were as desperate. How many mages lived in and around Kirkwall? How many couldn’t leave? How many resorted to blood magic?

Bloodstains on the floor from years ago looked like shadows. One looked like Littlefoot. I stumbled backwards, hands clutching Maleficent to my chest.

“Vir’era! Duck!”

I listened instinctively, all but falling to the ground. Just in time: an arrow hit a shade that had been flanking me while I was frantic. Not one of Sebastian’s arrows, though. He was in the wrong direction, and that hadn’t been his voice, anyway. That was Leliana.

I spun Maleficent’s blade to plunge it into an encroaching demon, then pushed it and its fellows back with a Mind Blast. This gave me time enough to call up shields and gather myself once again into the present, throwing myself into battle like it was all I knew.

The fight didn’t last long. When we were finished, I could see why; one of the mages had actually bled himself out, likely due to overuse of blood magic recently, and all of them were terribly thin. A single blow was enough for each. Still… I checked for any remaining magical signatures, any signs of life.

None.

Garrett had a cut on his cheek, but that was the only injury we had sustained. We were getting better every time—I just couldn’t decide if it was a good thing to be so talented at killing. At defending ourselves, certainly… but we rarely left survivors.

“Vir’era! It is good to see you again.” Leliana’s voice preceded her by only moments. She melted from the shadows almost as though she were using magic herself.

“Leliana,” I said, smiling even as I quickened my pace to reach her. She accepted my hug with a laugh that had lost some of the earnestness I remembered. Less silver and more silverite. “I have missed you.”

She pulled back and touched my hair. “You’ve grown your hair! It’s so much longer than I remember. Have you cut it at all?” I tried to hide my wince (as I couldn’t recall the last time I’d actually cut my hair), but clearly she saw through me, because she just tutted. “Men!”

It wasn’t exactly fair, since I knew a few men who certainly put time into their appearance—Anders almost ironically included, given how we’d lived in the literal sewers for three years—but I didn’t protest. I stepped to the side to gesture at the Hawkes and Sebastian. “Leliana, these are my friends. Champions Malia and Garrett Hawke, Prince Sebastian Vael, and Peaches.”

Leliana’s eyebrows rose a little. “Another prince? Vee, you don’t do anything by half, do you?” I had no answer for that, but she wasn’t waiting for one. She smiled charmingly at my friends, obviously putting her bard training to use. “It is good to meet you. I’m sorry about this ambush; it was me they were waiting for…”

I stood back as Leliana and the Hawkes conversed about the mages here and what Leliana herself was doing in Kirkwall. Sure, she’d asked me to come, but I had little to add. My eyes wandered to the bodies. I recognized a few of them from Darktown. A couple had even been to the clinic. I wondered if Anders knew what they were up to.

I hoped not.

“…because things are very concerning here. It is bad everywhere, but somehow Kirkwall is the worst,” Leliana said. She glanced at me. “I saw Ferelden’s Circle. Vir’era and I were there, six years ago, when it fell to blood mages. I do not want that to happen again.”

“We understand, Sister,” Garrett said. “Truly, we do. I don’t think an Exalted March is the way to go, though.”

“That is only a worst-case scenario. Thankfully, I do not think even Kirkwall has reached that.” Leliana turned to me, then. “Do you think it has, Vir’era? Should the Divine sanction the Templars to use greater force to control the mages here?”

“No.” I didn’t hesitate. “It’s not that bad, but, Leliana… Meredith is not well. What she’s doing, exactly, to the mages in the Gallows, I don’t know. I’m uncertain even Cullen knows the full extent, and he is her Knight-Captain.”

“True, but his friendship with you is hardly secret,” Sebastian said. “I would not be surprised if the Knight-Commander worried he was becoming… more sympathetic, perhaps. To the mages’ plight.”

I shook my head. “Hardly. At least, no more sympathetic than is due. We avoid the subject of Circles because he still believes they are necessary, that Templars are necessary, and he knows that I do not. But even he sees the lengths Meredith goes to as excessive. He has told me that she does not trust anyone fully. He—he said… He said he worries that she is growing paranoid beyond what is logical.”

And that much I knew to be true. In the few times I’d been near her since the Qunari attack, I could feel the sword. The red lyrium sword, made of the idol from the Deep Roads. Its tainted lyrium sang and spoke, and I didn’t doubt that someone who regularly ingested standard lyrium would be as susceptible as a Warden mage to that particular noise.

“I suspected as much,” Leliana said, quietly. She stared over our shoulders for a moment, pensive in a way that does not invite commentary. “I will tell the Divine to stay her hand. There is little more I can do for Kirkwall now, but I will watch. If the situation turns… Well, there is nothing of use that I can guarantee.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Garrett replied, nodding to her deferentially. “Really.”

She shook her head. “Do not thank me. I do not know what the future holds.” I held my breath for a half-beat, but she didn’t even glance my way. Spymasters are smarter than that. “No one truly does. The best I can offer is already here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

She gestured at us all. “You love this city. I can tell by how you speak of it, the concern you show, the fact that you came tonight at all. And you are smart, talented, well-connected if you know where to look. Plus, you have a true veteran among you. Vir’era is wiser than he lets on. I’d listen to him, were I you.”

“Oh, we’ve gathered that he’s more than meets the eye,” Malia said. “I mean, how many Dalish Grey Warden mages even exist? Let alone ones who know Kings and Left Hands and fought an actual Archdemon and lived to tell the tale.” I wondered if that was really how she saw me. I wondered how Leliana saw me, how everyone else saw me. Was I really such a significant figure to all my friends? I had trouble believing that. I’d lived in a sewer for three years, after all. How amazing could I be?

Leliana just hummed at that. “I must leave now. Thank you, Champions, for meeting with me. It has been an honor. I hope your faith in this city was not misplaced. Do not worry about the mess; I will have it taken care of.”

I lingered as the Hawkes and Sebastian started walking away. “Leliana,” I said, my voice low in the hopes that only she would hear me. “There is something you should know.”

“Is it about the tension between mages and Templars?” she asked. I nodded. “Very well. What is it?”

So much more businesslike than I remembered. Six years had changed her. The coming four would only change her more. I hated the thought. “War _will_ come. It’s—it’s inevitable.”

She deflated a little, looking for a moment like the eager Sister I remembered. “I had hoped we could avoid it. That maybe if things changed here…”

“Meredith will never allow that. She’s—she’s not the same woman she was when I first arrived in Kirkwall, Leliana. I can’t give you the details, because it would take too long for what time we have now, and I don’t trust these words to paper, but she has changed,” I insisted. “For the worse. She isn’t fit to be Knight-Commander, let alone a stand-in for the Viscount, but Elthina doesn’t see the dangers, or maybe doesn’t care, I don’t know, and no one else can challenge Meredith without being dismissed.”

“What changed her?” Leliana asked. “Will it hurt others, too? Please, Vir’era. I can make time for that. This is important.”

“Yes. It—I…” I looked towards the Hawkes, who were waiting patiently out of earshot. “One moment.” I moved towards them, trying to look casual rather than worried. Given my past with lying, I doubted I was successful. “Leliana and I are going to talk a while. Catch up, you know. I can make it back to the house safely on my own. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You sure?” Malia asked. “We can leave Peaches with you. She likes you. I don’t feel right leaving anyone alone in here, especially after being ambushed.”

“And I don’t think trying to traverse Hightown at night is a good idea for one person on their own, even with a fearsome mabari,” Garrett said. “We can wait, Vir’era. Your safety is important.”

I couldn’t risk anyone hearing what I needed to say, though. Leliana I could trust. She wouldn’t tell anyone who didn’t absolutely need to know. She was a spymaster. But Malia? Garrett? Even Sebastian was likely to tell someone. They might consider it their civic duty. I couldn’t let them know. “No one pays the slightest mind to a single mouse running around at night,” I said.

“Vee, you’re not a mouse,” Malia reminded me. “You might be small, but even elves are bigger than mice.”

“I’m a shapeshifter, Malia.”

“Oh. Right.”

Garrett huffed and crossed his arms. “I’d still feel better if we left at least Peaches with you.”

“A mabari will only attract attention to a mouse,” I reasoned, growing desperate to shoo them away. “It’s not like I haven’t traveled Hightown at night before. And I used to live in Darktown, you remember. That was rather more dangerous even during the day.”

“Darktown liked you,” Garrett rebutted, but it sounded more petulant than argumentative. He sighed, glancing at Malia. She pursed her lips and shrugged.

“Mom, Dad, I’ll be fine. Really.”

That earned me two sets of rolled eyes and a soft chuckle from Sebastian. “Oh, alright,” Malia said, then grinned and pinched my cheek before I could duck away. “Our little boy is all grown up! Staying out late to speak to a girl and everything!”

Garrett groaned and tugged her after him by the arm as he made his exit. Sebastian offered me a wave, then followed them more casually. I waited a moment, watching them and wishing I could say something, then turned back to Leliana. We sat on the stairs in the room, looking out over a place where no battles were meant to be waged, yet so many had been.

“I don’t know what is safe to say,” I said, after a long moment in which Leliana simply waited for me to speak. “I—I want to save as many lives as possible. I want to do what’s right. You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded, and put a hand on my shoulder. “You have never wanted anything else.”

Reassured, yet also feeling guilty that still I would keep things from her, things that might save lives, I turned my eyes to the floor in front of us. “When… when we went to the Deep Roads, Varric and the Hawkes and I, w-we found… a new sort of lyrium. It’s corrupted. Red. It sang in my head, as inescapable as the Archdemon. Most of it we didn’t touch, because it—we’d have had to mine it, and we weren’t there for mining, we didn’t have the tools.

“But there was an idol. I-I-I knew it was bad. I meant to warn them. To tell them not to. T-to say… I don’t know. I don’t _know_. I didn’t. I didn’t say anything, and then Bartrand—he took the idol, stole it away and locked us up to die. We didn’t, obviously, but. But.” I breathed a shaky breath. “The red lyrium… even without touching it, I swear I could feel it. It was—is… It’s tainted.”

“With the Blight?” Leliana asked, her voice nearly a whisper. I nodded, swallowed, looked at her. Her eyes were wide, her brow furrowed. “What happened to the idol? To Bartrand?”

“I don’t—the details are fuzzy,” I said. “But… it was bad. It drove him completely insane, and h-he only kept part of it. The rest was—Leliana, I don’t know how to fix what’s been done. I don’t know if we can.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “Tell me where it is. I will help you how I can.”

“Meredith Stannard’s sword.”


	28. brick by brick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for slightly late also apologies if typos wrote last half p much in the last hour and am about to try sleeping
> 
> let me know if u find any big shit typos (eh or little ones) and i will fix kthx
> 
> also hope no one minds this chapter is basically alllllllllll set up and conversations that dont go anywhere terribly fast

Of course, there was little Leliana could do—and even less that she could do with what time we had. Divine’s Left Hand or not, taking a prized sword from a paranoid and well-known figure was no easy task. I didn’t even dare ask it of her. She didn’t offer.

I went the next day to the Chantry to think on what I thought of as my lunch break—the brief midday lull where the clinic rarely saw more than one or two patients. Anders almost never left during that time (honestly, he almost never left at all), but I frequently used it. Especially to visit with Cullen for sparring or chess. I still usually beat him at sparring, but I never won at chess. I had no mind for that sort of strategy.

The Chantry was just as lazy at that time as the clinic. Various priests meandered, taking care of chores mostly, but few citizens were present. I suppose most were working. I noticed Sebastian cleaning wax from one of the tables as I went to sit at one of the pews in the back. He nodded at me, but didn’t pause.

Something about the warmth from all the ever-burning candles soothed me. I wore only my simpler robes, seeing no reason to wear armor to a place of worship—even if it was not my place of worship. I breathed in the heavy air and wondered how many would die here if I couldn’t stop Anders. (And I didn’t think I’d be able to.)

I hoped I could save some, though. Even just a few.

After some time, Sebastian came to sit by me. I peered over at him, unsure if he meant to talk or simply wanted to sit together in silence, but the look on his face was worrying. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Have I been indecisive?” he asked immediately, frowning at the pew in front of us. “Becoming a Brother, then forsaking it to avenge my family, then coming back. Elthina still isn’t convinced if I’m sincere. Garrett still thinks I could do more good as Prince. Malia doesn’t seem to have an opinion, but she didn’t disagree with him.”

“And what do you think?” Was I becoming a sounding board for him? A therapist? It was a strange concept, though perhaps not entirely out of place. A Keeper’s job is to look after their clan, and since I was a First, I may as well take whatever practice I could get.

He huffed out a chuckle. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. You seem a good person to ask. You’re about as decisive as me, aren’t you?”

I frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing bad!” he said, hurriedly, though I hadn’t been offended, merely confused. “But—well, as Varric tells it, you were part of one clan, then left to join another, then left to join the Grey Wardens, then left them to come to Kirkwall, and now you’re sort of back with the second clan. Is he wrong?”

“Varric tells stories about me? I’m fairly certain I told him not to.”

“Only to friends, and never on paper. Is he wrong, though?”

I shrugged. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I didn’t really choose to leave my first clan. My family. I—I don’t know what happened. And the second time, I was tainted with the Blight. I _couldn’t_ stay with Clan Sabrae. I would have died if I hadn’t become a Grey Warden.”

He nodded. “And when you left the Wardens?”

“Well,” I hedged, shrugging again. “Technically, I’ve never left the Wardens. That’s just Anders. Castor knows full well I’m here.”

“So that’s why Knight-Commander Meredith lets you speak with Cullen, then,” he said, drawing the obvious conclusion. “Even a Grey Warden mage is suspect to her, and this way she has someone she trusts to keep an eye on you.”

“I suppose.” I hadn’t really thought about it in those specific terms—especially since, from time to time, Cullen would ask about mages who had disappeared from the Gallows. Simply to find out if they were safe. I didn’t always know the names he dropped, but I recognized enough. He still seemed displeased about it, but… well, even he seemed to agree that the Gallows weren’t safe.

“But you’re also a First,” he continued. “And isn’t that like being a Brother in the Chantry?”

I didn’t have any other equivalent for it. “A bit? Like being a cleric and a seneschal and an enchanter all at once. The Keeper teaches the old ways and guards our lore; she also leads us and helps solve any problems which arise; and she uses her magic to heal those who need it and guide our aravels. And a First is her apprentice.”

“Keepers must have great influence, then.” Sebastian sighed, glancing up at the pulpit where Grand Cleric Elthina stood, watching benignly as the Chantry was cared for. “More than a Brother. More like a Prince. Grey Wardens don’t have nearly so much when there’s not a Blight on.”

“No.”

“Will you leave the Wardens for good, then? Become a First in full, or a Keeper if the worst should happen?”

I knew Marethari would die. My journal said as much, and said it would be the Keeper’s own fault. I hoped to stop this, too, but… She was already growing more and more difficult to talk to. Merrill’s departure had hit her harder than anyone thought. I don’t think she had even begun to accept it as permanent, let alone heal. So I knew my answer, though it did not come quickly. “Yes. My people need me as a First more than the Wardens need me with them.”

“You sound so sure,” Sebastian murmured, slumping back against the pew. “I wish I could feel that—that confidence that what you’re doing is _right_ , by the people and by the Maker.”

 

“I’m not,” I said. “But I know of no one else who can and will take up the task, no one else who will manage it the way it needs to be done. So I’ll do it, if that’s what it takes.”

He laughed. It was quiet enough that it didn’t disturb the peace of the Chantry, but still so genuine as to make me smile in return. “If you want it done right…”

“…you gotta do it yourself.”

 

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae,_

_I don’t know how you found me, or why you care, but Tevinter is my home. I don’t know any other. I have a chance to become a Magister, a real chance. I don’t want to squander it, but if what you say is true…_

_I’ve received the letters you mentioned. I didn’t want to believe them. I’m still not sure I do. I don’t know if I believe you are who you say you are. I’m not stupid. Even in Tevinter, we’ve heard about the so-called Fifth Blight, and the Wardens that ended it. Most don’t pay attention to the Elvish names except to insult them, but yours sticks out terribly._

_I’m coming to Kirkwall soon. I’m not giving up the chance to become a Magister if it all goes wrong, but I’ll do as you ask. You’re lucky that no one else has read your letters to me._

_Varania_

 

I didn’t know what to do with the letter that came for me less than a week later. Varania… Fenris’ sister. She was still going to bring Danarius, to let him set a trap with her as bait. But maybe I could turn the tables. Maybe—just maybe—I could convince Fenris that it was, in fact, _us_ setting a trap for _Danarius_. He was guaranteed to show, after all. Fenris could kill him and get his sister back.

And maybe Varania wouldn’t be bitter about it. Perhaps House Pavus could use an apprentice. My journal mentioned Dorian possibly being intended to become Magister, but it was vague enough that I wasn’t sure. Well, I could at least write her a letter of recommendation, couldn’t I? Or get someone else to. I knew a few people of import enough to have weight even in Tevinter.

I tossed the letter into the fire. All I could do for now was wait. Sooner or later, Isabela should show up with more news. Still, I sat down to pen a letter while I could…

 

_Feynriel,_

_I hope you’re well. It’s been some time since my last letter. I’m not writing about my project again, though it’s going as well as can be expected. I wish it weren’t so hard to find the information I seek, though I suppose it is understandable why. The Chantry would hardly look kindly on it. As always, I would welcome any further insights you’ve had, but I know you are busy, and I am capable of doing most on my own. The Keeper has been very helpful, as has Connor._

_I do have a favor to ask of you, though. There is a mage I know, an elven woman, who lives in Tevinter. She is coming to visit Kirkwall soon. Are there any magisters who would take her for an apprentice? I admit she has no noble lineage to my knowledge, and was once a slave. I will test her magical aptitude while she is here, if it will help. While the Dalish ways are not at all like those of Tevinter, surely the basics could still be used for a general idea of her ability._

_I would search myself, but there are few houses I know of which I would trust to teach her. Could you tell me if Magister Pavus is looking for an apprentice? I doubt your own teacher would appreciate what he’d surely consider a charity case, but if either he or Magister Pavus proves willing, I would be grateful. Thank you once again. I will await your reply._

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:37 Dragon_

 

There was no way to know how close Varania was. It would take a month, at least, for my letter to reach Feynriel, and who knows how long after that for his reply. Were I lucky, it would take only two months. I hoped Varania would not be here too soon. I didn’t know how long I could make her stay, or how long her status as a Tevinter citizen would protect her from Meredith’s paranoia regarding mages.

I feared for her. For Fenris, who would surely love to regain something of his old life, at least, even if it is not what he expected. Even though she was a mage. She was his sister, after all. Maybe that would be enough. I hoped it would. It had to be. It’s all I had.

More and more, I was running on hope.

 

Most often, Cullen and I met in Hightown. It was the most neutral territory for us both, and least likely to randomly start shouting at one or both of us, especially when we were spending time together.

Usually, we avoided the Chantry, because the Sisters, though they respected me as a Warden, looked down on ‘fraternization’ between Templars and mages of any sort. We avoided the Blooming Rose for obvious reasons, and the Keep was a bad idea because it was too tense between the Templars and the guards. Truthfully, it was safest for him to come to the Hawke Estate, but he was clearly uncomfortable there, so I only suggested it on rare occasions.

The marketplace, where people stood and spoke with little ceremony regardless of class, station, or race, was our preferred meeting place. There was room for chess, and we were never the only ones playing. Only when we sparred did we have to seek out somewhere more spacious—and Aveline thought it did the guards good to watch, so we usually used the sparring ring in the Keep, even with the tensions there.

Not long after Leliana’s visit, when I arrived in the marketplace, Cullen had neither his armor nor his chessboard. It was a rare sight; though he did not always wear his armor to see me, he almost always had at least one of the two. But there are exceptions to every rule, and sometimes he simply wanted to talk. Sometimes that’s all I wanted, too, and I felt grateful that today was a talking day.

I waited for him to finish his purchase at the fruit stall. The merchant (a kindly old woman named Ellen) patted his hand as she took his coins, then nodded to me with a smile. “Hello, good Warden. Would you like to buy an apple today? My son has had a wonderful harvest this time. They’re very sweet.”

“Not today, Ellen, but I will tell Bodhan and Leandra,” I said. Leandra liked to keep fruit around the house, which usually meant that Bodhan was responsible for going to market and purchasing some every few days.

“Alright, dear. You boys have a lovely afternoon, now,” she said, shooing Cullen in my direction. He had a small basket with him, holding his purchases from the market, and smiled when I met his eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. He started walking off to the side, where we often sat to play chess. “I’m not much in the mood for sparring or chess today.”

I shook my head, letting him lead. “Not at all. I’ve a lot on my mind, and don’t think I would be very good competition.” Nor had I really dressed to spar, wearing the tunic and pants I normally wore under my armor, but without the armor itself.

We sat, and for a moment it was quiet. “The Knight-Commander doesn’t yet know, and I’m currently keeping my head turned from it, but there are whispers among the Templars. They’re not… happy. With her.” I didn’t know how to respond. “I believe some are meeting with mages in secret. I think—they are wary of me, but I do not think they…”

“They don’t suspect you like they do her,” I finished.

He shifted a little. “They know I consider you a—friend.”

My heart fluttered at that. For Cullen, saying such words was surely no easy feat. We had been friends for some time, yes, but it’s one thing to allow it to exist and another entirely to acknowledge it aloud. “And you’re a good friend, Cullen.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head, but didn’t argue, and I took it as a win. “Perhaps your other friends—the Champions—perhaps they might make better use of this information. I can’t do anything. I cannot even acknowledge them, but they could probably use more… discretion.”

I hummed, but didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong.

“There was something else—oh, yes. I heard a rumor that one of the Divine’s people visited Kirkwall recently,” he said, turning to me with his full attention. “And that the Champions and our local Grey Warden met with them in the dark of night at the Viscount’s Keep.”

“Is that so?” I asked, tugging on my sleeves and trying to feign ignorance.

“It’s what they’re saying,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

I coughed. He waited. I pulled on my ear. He kept waiting. “I… well, it happened, more or less, but I shouldn’t tell you more than that,” I said, at last.

“Not even why the Divine sent someone here? The Knight-Commander didn’t receive notice or a visit.”

“I’m sure you can figure out why the Divine might send someone here,” I returned.

He pursed his lips, but didn’t pursue that point further. “And as for why only the Champions seemed to be worth visiting? They’re known to harbor and aid apostates, after all.” Even though he didn’t say it, everyone also knew, by now, that Garrett was a mage. I was fairly certain that Cullen simply couldn’t publicly acknowledge it without being obligated to do something about it, and, frankly, was therefore grateful to pretend Garrett was anything but a mage.

“In their defense, I’m a Grey Warden, not an apostate, and at least one of the other mages they’ve helped is also Dalish, and therefore not truly the Chantry’s business, either.” I didn’t dare name Merrill, just in case. Or Feynriel, for however much he counted at this point.

Cullen closed his eyes fro a moment, lips going thin and face aging. I couldn’t decide how to decipher what he must be thinking, feeling. “Any mage in the city, Dalish or Andrastian or otherwise, is Templar business. Not Chantry business, no, but Templars are not only serving the Chantry; we also serve the people of Thedas.”

We were heading into dangerous territory. He and I both knew it. Were we to continue, we’d doubtlessly fight, and I didn’t want to deal with that. Not now. “The Sister who came is an old friend of mine,” I said instead. “If she needed an objective point of view, she would not have spoken to the Champions or myself.” I wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, Leliana had been hoping for.

Cullen nodded, leaning back. “You’re probably right. I shouldn’t doubt Her Holiness, anyway. I can’t know what other factors were in play, and she’s wise enough to do nothing without first thinking it through carefully.”

I didn’t want to doubt Divine Justinia, knowing how much Leliana trusted her, but I also knew that humans in power rarely remembered the elves they trampled. I said nothing, watching the people of Kirkwall take care of their business at the market.

“Mia sent a letter,” Cullen said, after a bout of silence. “She wanted me to apologize that she couldn’t send one to you as well.”

“She should know I understand,” I answered, rolling my eyes with fondness. We’d been writing each other for seven years by now—and for three of those, I’d lived in a literal sewer. I understood that sometimes she didn’t have the time or coin to send two letters to the same place. “Did she say anything else?”

“My brother—Branson—he’s getting married. He’s invited me to the wedding, but I’m not…” He sighed and scuffed one boot against the ground. “I don’t know that I can… go. I have the money, but with the Knight-Commander—it may be best if I stay.”

I elbowed him lightly, which made him raise his eyebrows at me. “You should go, if you can. He’s your brother, and he’s getting married. You haven’t seen him since you left to become a Templar, have you?”

Cullen just huffed a little. “You know the Knight-Commander would not approve.”

“Even Templars get leave sometimes, right?” I pressed. I knew Cullen hadn’t taken a single day off unless required to since—well, I wasn’t sure just how long it had been, but it had been at least since I came to Kirkwall, and likely longer than that. “You should go. They miss you, I’m sure of it, and would love to see you again.”

He huffed again, like he wasn’t sure he could believe my words, but nodded. “Mia says much the same. I only want… You cannot repeat this to anyone, Vir’era, but you should know that I… I do not trust Meredith’s judgement right now. She has become paranoid beyond what is reasonable, and though I agree completely with most of what she says, the things I do not agree with are—they’ve become monumental. They used to be trivial.”

I didn’t voice it, but I knew that at least part of this was because of me. Certainly, most of it was due to the red lyrium in Meredith’s sword, driving her to insanity while everyone watched. But part of it, part of how Cullen was changing, was due to me, and it felt so damn good. I had reconnected him with his sister, his family. They were something solid to hold to in the turbulent confusion of Kirkwall.

And maybe, just maybe, my friendship had helped prove that mages were people, too.

“The choice is yours,” I said, “but I still think you should go. It would do you good.”

He didn’t reply, and we parted ways not long after that.

 

When I returned to the Hawke estate, Anders took me aside. “Garrett told me about how you met with the Divine’s Left Hand,” he said. I wondered why he had taken so long—had Garrett not told him immediately? Apparently sensing the question, Anders’ next words were, “I had forgotten something. But then I remembered.”

I frowned. “Remembered what?” It sounded like he meant to lead me to some conclusion, like he thought it was obvious enough that I should know automatically what it was that he was hinting at, but I was uncertain.

“Karl,” he said, like the name should mean more to me. “I remembered what you told me about Karl.”

I knew, then, what he meant: he had forgotten my strange foreknowledge of certain events, but something about recent discoveries had reminded him. What I couldn’t understand was why it was so important. “I—yes?”

He pursed his lips at me and paced to the window of my room. It didn’t look out over much of a view—mostly just the narrow space between the Hawke estate and the home behind it, which was covered so completely in ivy that I couldn’t tell if there were windows facing me at all. Anders gripped the windowsill and glared at the ivy. Perhaps the force of it might create a window where there was none. “Garrett said you were certain there would be a war.”

_Oh._

I didn’t answer for a moment. He kept glaring, lips tight and knuckles white. The air around us was charged with magic, with that ephemeral miasma that meant Justice was close to the surface, that he was listening closely—and, sometimes, that Anders was only barely maintaining control of his own body.

( _What spell did you use, Anders?_ I wondered, not for the first time. He had never divulged just how he and Justice became one. I didn’t know how different it was or was not from Connor’s demon.)

Without my armor, without Maleficent, I couldn’t pretend to be imposing. I was short, even for an elf, and skinny even after three years of Leandra’s insistent mothering (though at least I was no longer skin and bones, too weak to lift more weight than my armor). I wasn’t even as accomplished a mage as Anders. Still, I stood as tall as I could manage and held my head as proud as any Dalish.

“Yes,” I told him. “It is… inevitable.”

“Inevitable like Karl?” There was a bite to the words I hadn’t expected, a resentment I hadn’t known existed until it spat itself into the world. The charge in the air became thick like smog.

I swallowed, but Anders was still facing away from me. He couldn’t see me waver, couldn’t see my fear. Justice—he remembered me, still called me friend, but he—I was unsure it would last. I couldn’t guarantee he would continue to look on me kindly if he were to know, in full, the contents of my journal. “Yes.”

He snarled at the window, and I saw it in the reflection. My bones trembled in my skin. I endeavored to stay still, to not let the whole of me shake with them.

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, Justice looked back at me. “You did not tell the Divine that the mages deserve better.”

“Leliana already knows,” I said, but the answer paled to his stare.

“Surana,” he said, then looked somewhere else, like he was following a trail I could not see. Perhaps he was. Confined to the mortal realm though he may be, Justice was still a spirit, and a spirit knows and sees things no mortal eye can comprehend. “But the Divine does not care. Not enough.”

I couldn’t deny that. I didn’t have the knowledge, the proof. From Leliana’s devotion, I wanted to say Justinia cared. Wanted to say Justinia would do better for mages if only she could without starting the war herself. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know for sure, and Justice would know if I pretended, would know if I lied, would know…

“You know how the war starts.”

It was an accusation. I was glad, then, that he was not like what my journal said Cole was That he could not truly glean things by simply… listening. Perhaps it was not a power of Justice, or perhaps it had been taken from him when he was trapped here. “I know… something of it. Not all. There is—there is more than what I—it’s no simple thing, the start of this war.”

I wanted to say: perhaps it has already started. I wanted to say: perhaps it has been going on since the Templars’ conception. I wanted to say: it is as ancient as the Chantry itself. It has been happening since the first time a mage was killed for simply existing. It is only growing now. It is only becoming something that cannot be ignored.

But I did not. I think Justice knew some of these thoughts, knew them like he knew that there had been injustice in mages’ treatment for all of recorded history, even in Tevinter, where they held the power.

(I wondered what Elvhenan had looked like. Were mages oppressed so in Arlathan? Had the ancient elves treated us better? I knew they had owned slaves; they had enslaved each other. Knew that the vallaslin we Dalish had reclaimed was once the brand of a slave, a marking used by those with power to show their devotion to their gods.

(I wondered if things could ever be better, or if one group would always fall behind, below, be thought lesser and unworthy of life. I prayed such was not so, prayed such to the Creators who could not hear, to Mythal whose power was dimmed, to the Dread Wolf for what he might deign to do, to any higher powers that might listen.)

“The Grand Cleric will not listen, either.” Less of an accusation than his last statement, more of an observation, like he had known it as truth but had hoped it was not.

“Elthina… I cannot claim to understand her, but she is—she is holding to her neutrality. She will not give that up easily.” Privately, I doubted she would support the mages even if she were ever to finally, finally choose a side. It was because of something I had heard somewhere, though I couldn’t remember the exact words, or where I’d heard it: those who look on oppression and do nothing because it does not harm them are using their passivity to allow the oppression to continue while pretending to disapprove.

Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps Elthina did care for mages. But I had lived in Kirkwall six years, had visited the Chantry often enough, had spoken with Elthina enough times to know that she was completely aware of how dire things were for mages, yet she continued to do nothing about Meredith, to say nothing condemning the Knight-Commander’s actions in any concrete way.

Justice nodded. It was the calmest I’d seen him in—I couldn’t remember how long. Even so, I was not fooled. I knew that the anger was bubbling, knew Anders worked hard to not lose control without intent to do so. “It is as I thought.”

The words were damning. I shivered. In those words, I heard a death sentence, and I prayed again, quietly, desperately, that I could succeed in my plans before Vengeance could succeed in his. I needed—I couldn’t—if I could save Anders… If I could save the innocent souls of Kirkwall who _died_ for Vengeance’s wrathful anger…

I would do almost anything.


	29. what's with these fucked up family relations anyway

Varania arrived on an uncharacteristically sunny day. Isabela came into the clinic just after lunchtime, and informed me with no small amount of amusement that my ‘secret visitor’ had finally come. Of course, she said this loud enough for Anders to turn and furrow his brow, but at least she said it with enough overacting that it sounded as though she was merely poking fun, as she often did.

“Oh, don’t you start,” I berated half-heartedly, taking my too-recognizable armor off to leave it with Anders. It wouldn’t do for Danarius to realize who I was or to suspect my plans.

“And here I thought you went more for the strapping, lost nobleman type,” Isabela said, dramatically fluttering a hand over her chest. “How will we _ever_ break the news?”

I elbowed her, and she laughed in undiscouraged delight. “Anders, I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. Don’t forget about the potions for Cynthia.” For the miners, really, but Cynthia was going to collect them.

“I won’t,” he promised, though it didn’t convince me. At least the potions were all made this time; all he had to do was remember not to use the ones we’d set aside. “Stay safe.”

Isabela didn’t know much about my plan with Varania. She’d known I was waiting for Varania to arrive, and had agreed to let me know when she did; that was all. But she wasn’t stupid, either. “You know,” she said as we climbed up to Lowtown, “it’s a bit strange that you’re so interested in Fenris’ sister. Does he know?”

I stumbled on a stair when I tried to turn to her too quickly, but managed not to fall. “I—how did you find out?”

“Aveline.” The casual grin on her face was almost out of place when in association with Aveline, given how poorly they used to get along. “She told her guards to let her know if someone by Varania’s description entered Kirkwall, and I just had to know why, so she told me. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her it was for you. She probably thinks I was just being a pest.”

Which wouldn’t be unusual. Isabela did enjoy pressing Aveline’s buttons, even now that they had an understanding of sorts. “He doesn’t know,” I answered, then glanced around as if Fenris would suddenly appear simply because we were talking about him. It would hardly be the most surprising thing to happen. “I don’t plan on telling him just yet. I need—I have a plan, and I need to know it will work before he gets involved.”

Isabela hummed and kicked a rock as we passed it. “Well, good luck with that. I don’t know what you’re thinking, because Fenris is about the _last_ person I’d want to fool, but I hope it works out for you and he doesn’t, I don’t know, decide he wants nothing to do with you. But I’m definitely not going to be involved from now. If he asks, I know nothing.”

I snorted. “Fair enough. But that has to include that you don’t tell him I’ve come to see her, alright? Not unless it’s absolutely necessary, or until he knows.”

“Of course, of course. Mum’s the word.”

She wandered off to her customary spot at the bar as soon as we entered, and I looked for Varania. It wasn’t too hard; at this point, I knew at least the faces (if not the names) of all the Hanged Man’s usual patrons, so spotting an unfamiliar red-headed elf was no difficult task. Of course, I was short, and so was she, so I did have to wander a bit to find her.

Near the stairs, in possibly the worst position for me to remain anonymous from Danarius. I wasn’t sure if this was intentional or not, but played it like it was, and kept my back to the stairs. I’d seen no unfamiliar human faces yet, and would rather not chance it.

“Varania?” I asked, catching her attention quickly.

She peered up with pursed lips. “You must be the Grey Warden. Sabrae.”

“Yes,” I answered. “Warden Vir’era Sabrae, at your service. I trust you remember why I’ve sought you out.”

“You know Leto,” she answered. “Or the man who claims to be him. Fenris.” She spat Fenris like a curse, and I couldn’t blame her. In her position… Well, wasn’t it how I felt about Vengeance? Not the same, but similar enough.

“Yes,” I said again, and gestured at the seat near her. “May I?” She nodded, and I sat. “I have a proposal for you. A—a counter-proposal, I suppose.”

“Counter-proposal? To what, exactly?” Her arms were folded tight against her chest, and she held herself unnaturally still. I didn’t know if this was out of determination over her nerves or if it was a residue of whatever had happened to her during her time as a slave.

I deliberately let myself relax into the chair, or at least appear to do so. In truth, I felt hyperaware of every movement or glance in our direction—of which there were truthfully few, but I had no way of knowing when a single one might be our undoing. “To whatever it is, exactly, that Danarius has proposed for you.”

“You have something better to offer than a seat in the Magisterium?” she asked, words so dry they nearly cracked my skin. She would not be an easy sell—especially not now, as things were, since she had yet to see Fenris, had yet to obtain any proof that he was really her lost brother beyond the promises of a magister (untrustworthy) and the letters of a runaway (yet less trustworthy).

“Perhaps not better,” I said, not the least bit afraid to admit this, “but it is something of worth, and I do hope you will at least hear my words before you refuse. Would you do that for me?”

She gave me a critical once-over. I knew I hardly looked like much; though my clothes were Warden colors (blue and grey seemed almost all I owned), they were obviously old, and stains marred the hems. I’d bathed only the day before, by some stroke of luck, but even so, I _had_ just come from Darktown, and thereby couldn’t smell very inviting. I had scars. Dirt on my hands, soot on my knees, and my shoes were… well-used.

But I also had my Warden’s Promise, that very pendant I’d gotten nearly seven years ago, because I’d lived through the Joining. I still wore it, faithfully, every day. (I could still remember Daveth and Ser Jory, could remember their deaths at Ostagar.) Varania’s eyes caught on it, as I’d let it show in the way I usually didn’t, because it was—not private, necessarily, but it was… it got in the way of my work, and it was mine.

“Fine,” she said, at last. “Speak, if you must. I’ll listen. I promise nothing more.”

“I would ask nothing more,” I told her with a smile. Then, not wanting to give her enough time to decide that she didn’t want to indulge me, after all, I began my sales pitch. “Fenris is your brother, I assure you this. I understand that you may not believe me until you have seen him yourself, though, so I do not ask that you lay all your hopes on me.

“What I _do_ ask is very simple, but Danarius must not know.” As stealthily as I could, I reached out with my magic in a way that Keeper Marethari had taught me, trying to see if I could sense the magic of any others within hearing range. I felt only Varania, and hoped this was proof enough that Danarius was not listening and would not know my next words. “I cannot claim to know all that transpired. I do not know how Fenris came to be in Danarius’… household, nor why he lost contact with you after. I am not asking.

“You should know that Danarius was not a kind master. Again, I do not know the details. Fenris… he’s my friend, but we’re not—we are not exactly close. I trust him to have my back, and he seems to give me the same trust, but he has never given me his secrets. I only know that, whatever he experienced under Danarius, it was terrible enough that he ran away and has killed every person to attempt to return him.

“For that, I think it is important that you know…” I trailed off, not entirely sure I wanted to say my next words, but knowing that it was important to hear. Varania was entirely still in front of me, but such had been true since I sat down. Her face told me nothing. I took a deep breath. “He might—if he learns that you brought Danarius here, that you were involved in any way in trying to bring him back under Danarius’ thumb, he may very well kill you, too, despite that you are his sister.”

She still did not react in any way that I could use to gauge her emotions. Then again, I often found it hard to interpret what Fenris thought of anything that did not explicitly make him angry. Perhaps it was a familial trait; perhaps it was the result of years of slavery, when every minute action could be the excuse for a master’s wrath. “You seem certain he could kill Danarius.”

“He does not fight alone. Not anymore.” It had been years since Fenris was alone. He had friends now. Garrett, Malia, Isabela, Varric, Sebastian… even Aveline would readily call him ‘friend.’ (Merrill and Anders might not be so loose with the word in regards to Fenris, but they would help him fight against slavery, I was certain of that.) And I thought of him as a friend. I liked to believe he thought the same of me.

Varania didn’t comment. She was thinking very carefully, I hoped. If I did this right… she would weigh her options, and find Danarius lacking. “So, then. What is your offer, Warden Sabrae? You have yet to tell me.”

I smiled ever so slightly. “Without telling Danarius of any change in plans, I would have you allow me to bring Fenris to believe that you lured Danarius here so that Fenris might kill him. Or, if you prefer, I will lead Fenris to believe you were forced to bring Danarius, by trickery or threat; with your help, either one can be made to seem authentic.”

“You wish for me to double-cross Danarius.”

“What I want is for Fenris to be happy,” I corrected. “I—I cannot claim to know if having contact with you will help in that, and I don’t know how much he values family. But I—I…” With a great sigh, I changed tactics. “I have a friend. Human, so maybe it’s too different, and he’s never been a slave, nor among the poorest of the poor in Tevinter, but… He went through something terrible, much like Fenris has. Neither horror is comparable to the other, but both are… No one should have experienced the things they have experienced.

“I met his sister, and she was so worried for him. I know it is different in so many ways, but when I—when his sister began writing to him, when they reconnected, I noticed he was…” The words didn’t come easily. Cullen’s story was hardly mine to share, but if that’s what it took to convince Varania, whose face remained unreadable, then I would try. “He’s happier, and he no longer looks at life as though it is something destined to destroy.

“That’s why I want to help Fenris. He’s come a long way from where he was when I first met him, but he’s still… There are too many loose ends, I think, in his life. I believe you are one of them; I only want a happy ending for both of you, and I do not think that’s possible if you… if he believes you’ve betrayed him in any way.”

She leaned back. It was the first significant movement since I’d sat down, and I wasn’t sure what it meant. “You really care for him, don’t you? You really do want this, and you think it’ll work.”

“I’ve killed for him before,” I told her instead. “I’d do it again, if it meant his safety and happiness. Don’t mistake me; I’m not in love with him. He’s my friend, and I—I only want to ensure my friends are happy, that they live good, full lives. There is very little I can do to repay any friends I have for what they have done for me. So I do what I am able.”

A nod. One side of her mouth curled up a bit. It wasn’t quite a smile, not quite a smirk, but it was something near to approval. “And what do I get, other than reconnecting with my brother? Which is certainly kind, and this has been a very touching story, but you must understand: Danarius has offered me a seat in the Magisterium, when he dies or chooses to retire. I can do a lot more for the slaves and elves of Tevinter there than I can with a runaway slave for a brother.”

There’s the rub. She reminded me of Capella, almost. Advancement took priority, and the costs were weighed against the possibilities. No cost was too high, so long as the power achieved was worth it. And this power? It seemed worth her own brother.

“At the moment, there is little I can offer, for which I am truly sorry. But I do… have plans. There is a mage I know in Tevinter, who I have helped in the past and consider a friend. He is the apprentice to a magister himself, and may be able to find you a magister to apprentice to, as well.” She made no indication of her thoughts on that offer. “If that doesn’t appeal to you, I have a few alternate options, though I admit they are mostly back-up plans if Feynriel cannot find someone to take you for an apprentice.”

I waited a beat, trying to see if she’d react. She stared at me some more, infinitely patient. I doubted she would prompt me to continue, so I didn’t test her patience, and started to list what options I could. “The worst of the options is that I could teach you myself, here, in Kirkwall. You would be an apostate at worst and a Grey Warden recruit at best. Templars may attempt to take you to the Circle. But you would be near Fenris, and I would give you whatever protection I could. Still, Fenris would likely rather you be in the Circle, given his thoughts on mages who are not overseen well.

“I could also send you to the Circle in Ferelden, where I have a friend, and whose First Enchanter I have helped in the past. You would be quite safe there, and you would be guaranteed food and clothing, but you would be subject to the rules and procedures of a southern Circle, and those are not so lenient as in Tevinter. I do think you’d do well in a Circle, though; you seem to have an eye for using politics to your advantage.”

She didn’t react. Not even the slightest raising of her eyebrow. Damn that poker face. I briefly entertained the thought of challenging her to Wicked Grace with my friends, wherein she would have to help with no reward if she lost, but doubted even Isabela’s sleight of hand could match Varania’s sheer force of will without immense luck.

“I could make you a Grey Warden recruit,” I said, though I was the least confident in this offer of all those I had control over. “I could then send you to any of the Warden strongholds, though I am personally a member of Vigil’s Keep, and could most easily introduce you to the Warden-Commander there. He would take you, but I can’t guarantee that you would live through the Joining, and your life would be forfeit to the Wardens, as mine and all Grey Wardens’ lives are.”

Still nothing. I was growing desperate; I had but two options left, and neither were things I could ensure would happen perfectly. My nerves probably were obvious to her—if not by the jiggling of my leg, then by the strain I could feel in my face. “I know the King and Queen of Ferelden, and might be able to convince them to name you Court Enchanter, but that is far from ideal for someone without significant magical training. And since I can’t guarantee yours… Well. I don’t know.

“And, lastly…” I took a deep breath. “You’ve realized that I am Dalish. I am… I am the First of my clan, under Keeper Marethari. I might… If I am careful, if you are careful, I might be able to convince the Keeper to train you. In time, you might be considered Dalish, though you could never become Keeper.” I didn’t even know if they would allow her to receive vallaslin; even Pol, who had been younger when he joined the clan, had not received vallaslin.

Finally, though, this garnered a true reaction: surprise. Her eyebrows were raised, her jaw ever so slightly slack. “That is—a significant offer. You’re quite serious about this. More than I thought.”

“I am,” I confirmed, and hoped it would be enough.

“I didn’t know the Dalish took in other elves,” she murmured, not looking at me. She didn’t seem to want an answer, so I didn’t, but she seemed to be contemplating. “Regardless, that is not what I want most. You’ve convinced me, at least. If you can arrange for a magister to teach me, that would be best. If not… well, I will consider your other offers only if that one fails.”

For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. I just stared at her, eyes wide, uncertain I could take what she said at face value. She smiled, a bit more than the first one I’d seen, and nodded. “Tell Leto… Fenris, whatever he calls himself. Tell him I’ve lured Danarius here.”

“I will,” I promised.

 

I went to Fenris’ house immediately after. I didn’t want to waste any time, or give Varania half a chance to change her mind—or, at worst, give Danarius a chance to learn of our plot.

To save time, I flew there as an owl, taking to a back alley to change into an owl, and not changing back until I was safely inside the mansion Fenris insisted on squatting in. (He left some of the windows open almost all the time. There were multiple birds’ nests inside.)

“Fenris?” I called. He was usually in one of three rooms, but I didn’t want to shock him by simply appearing without warning. “Are you home?”

“I am,” he answered, and I saw him come out to the railing of the second floor. He peered over it at me, eyebrows raised. “Do you have need of me?”

I started up the stairs toward him, not particularly relishing the idea of having this conversation over the expanse of the house. “Yes, of a sort. I’ve news for you, at any rate, and didn’t want to delay in delivering it.”

“What sort of news?” he asked, frowning now, but he did not stop me from coming up the stairs.

I had rehearsed what I’d say to him (I’d planned to spin it so that I simply happened to be in the Hanged Man for lunch when Varania recognized and approached me), but the words didn’t come the way I had hoped. “Your sister sent me,” I said, and hoped he wouldn’t be too suspicious.

“My sister,” he repeated, voice entirely flat. “You… know she is here. You have seen her.”

“Y-yes.”

He got that same look on his face that she’d had—the one where it was impossible to interpret just what he might be thinking, and he refused to meet my eyes. “Did she… You said she sent you here. With a message. Give it to me.”

“She wants you to know that she… has a plan. It’s not—the most clever thing, but it is _something_. For Danarius, and you.” Delivering my own plan by pretending it came from Varania was a bit surreal, given that less than an hour ago, I had been all but on my knees, begging her to even consider it.

“A trap, you mean.” He still refused to look at me.

“Um, yes. It’s—she knows a little of your plight. Not a lot, but enough. Danarius is with her now—I-I didn’t get the details on that, but she… She brought him. To Kirkwall.” With you as bait, I didn’t say. I didn’t need to; it was obvious.

“He thinks to capture me once more. And what is her plan? She cannot have known I would have the help I need to take him down,” Fenris said, and my already-thin plan seemed suddenly full of holes.

I shrugged helplessly, and threw some caution to the wind. “I did, ah… I wrote to her myself, after we killed Hadriana. She… recognized my name, from the reports of the Fifth Blight.”

He hummed and finally looked at me again. “You did not tell me of this. Why did you write to her?”

“I… only wanted to help. Ir abelas, Fenris. I should have told you.” I didn’t regret it, despite my words. Not yet. There was no reason to.

“I see,” he said, and commented no further on it. After a moment’s silence, he looked back down to the first floor. “Aveline told me Varania had arrived, and Malia… she and Garrett have agreed to come with me. To meet her. Given what you have said, it would be… prudent if you came, as well.”

“Of course,” I said. “But if you don’t want me there—”

“I do.” The answer surprised me, as did its speed. This must have shown on my face, because Fenris huffed in that way that I knew stood for amusement, and continued, “I consider you a friend, Vir’era. I would… appreciate it. If you came along.”

“Of course,” I said once more, with feeling. “And me, too. I mean, I—you’re my friend, too.” He smiled his little half-smile, and I couldn’t help grinning in response.

“That is good.”

 

Five of us attended, in the end—Fenris had asked Sebastian along, as well. (It made sense, as they were rather close friends. I’d seen Fenris in the chantry more than once, often visiting Sebastian.) Anders was expressly told to stay home, despite his obvious curiosity.

To his credit, Fenris didn’t show so much as an ounce of nervousness. He did not shake, he didn’t pause, he didn’t pace. Were I in his place, I’d have likely done all three, multiple times over. But Fenris kept his head up and walked with the same determination he showed everything, silently daring any to get in his way.

It was obvious, as soon as we entered the Hanged Man, that Danarius was outmatched. Even if it had been only Fenris and the Hawkes, I had no doubt they’d have overtaken him with barely a sweat; but with Sebastian and myself in the mix, too? It was laughable.

And Danarius didn’t know. I stood back as Fenris approached Varania, not wanting to intrude on such an intimate moment. It wasn’t my place. They spoke softly, and she smiled at him, even though her eyebrows were drawn up. It may have been a trick of the light, but I thought her eyes looked shinier, like she was about to cry.

Danarius interrupted with relish. The smug look on his face, the smarmy smile, everything about his countenance set my nerves on end. His presence was like grease.

I wasn’t the only one offended by his mere existence. Malia scowled and sneered as defensively as I’d ever seen her; Garrett turned stony-silent, but there was no mercy in the tension with which he held himself. Beside me, Sebastian unsubtly gripped his bow hard enough that I swore I heard the wood creak from the pressure.

“Ah, Fenris. My little wolf. Who is this? Your new mistress and master?” Danarius’ descent from the second floor of the tavern was a plague that spread through the room and soured the otherwise homely atmosphere. “Do they know you belong to me still?”

“Fenris is a free man,” Malia spat—literally, in that I saw spittle hit Danarius’ shoes. He watched it but made no move to recoil. “He belongs to no one except himself.”

Varania slipped back, and would have gone unnoticed if Danarius weren’t so observant. “What’s this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the room. Those patrons who were paying attention began to scatter, likely sensing the building confrontation. Some were even kind enough to drag their friends along. “Did you tell him to expect me, Varania? That was not part of our deal.”

“You are not the only one who can make a deal,” Varania said, sounding braver than I expected against someone she doubtlessly feared. Still, her eyes betrayed her when she looked to me, and Danarius was quick to follow her gaze.

“A Grey Warden? Strange. What is a Warden doing with _my_ slave?” he asked, and started to move forward.

Garrett, creators bless him, stepped in the way. “I’m sure you have better things to do than interfere with a Grey Warden or hunt a single man across all of Thedas,” Garrett said. “If you leave, we might even agree to forget this happened, _and_ let you keep your life.”

“No.” Fenris was having _none_ of that, thank you very much. “He dies.”

Danarius had the gall to laugh. Garrett looked at Malia. Malia drew her thumb across her neck. Fenris began to advance. With a great shrug, Garrett pulled his staff out and enlarged it, saying, “Well, I tried.”

“Give him to me,” Danarius said, blithely ignoring the postures everyone was settling into, “and I forget this foolish attempt at a threat.”

A small throwing knife very nearly took off his ear—it would have, in fact, if not for a shielding spell that Danarius apparently had been maintaining since his appearance. “No,” Malia said, very simply, and that was the end of whatever negotiations Danarius had hoped for.

I wasted no time in casting my shields. Danarius wasted less in summoning a small army of demons and spirits. I wondered very briefly where he’d gotten enough blood for such a number, but didn’t let it distract me. Instead, trusting the others could handle things for a few seconds without my direct aid, I began to usher out those patrons who had not left.

Luckily, they didn’t argue. I saw a few scurry upstairs, unable to pass to the door, but doubted they’d be in terrible trouble. We were capable enough that this battle should keep itself contained to the first floor. (And, if we were lucky, it would cause minimal damage for the Hawkes to clean up.)

As the last patron scrambled to the door, I turned back to the fight. Danarius was literally glowing from the strength of his shield, and I knew nothing could touch him for the time being. There was a rage demon trying to corner Fenris—even he could do little in a fight against what was, effectively, sentient molten lava. I decided to start there, and shot off a powerful Winter’s Grasp.

The demon whirled around, apparently expecting its new target to be immediately behind itself. (Demons weren’t particularly _smart_ , most of the time.) I managed to get off a couple more blasts before it saw me, and even then I was half a tavern away. I cast glyphs in front if it—both paralyzing and ice—and tried to think up a better battle plan.

Fenris skirted around the demon without raising its attention. He spared me only a half-nod in acknowledgement, but more would be dangerous in the midst of so many enemies. What his target was, I couldn’t tell; my problem was growing more dire as I realized that the rage demon was scorching the floor it touched, and it had even lit a chair aflame.

“Fuck, shit, fuck,” I muttered, pulling as much mana as I could up. I sent the strongest cold I could at the rage demon and its surroundings, freezing it all in ice. It couldn’t last long, but at least I’d stopped the fire. A bit of spirit magic, and the ice cracked; a bit more, and the demon was crushed into nonexistence.

Apparently Danarius didn’t like that, though. I didn’t even have a chance to check that the others were in good shape; almost as soon as the rage demon dissipated, a despair demon took its place. My glyphs wouldn’t do shit against it—the problems with fighting flying creatures. Most of my tactics were suited for grounded foes. Like darkspawn. I was good at fighting darkspawn.

Nevertheless, I lobbed a bright fireball at the demon. It screamed, found me immediately, and started in with the ice magic. I jumped to the side, nearly falling over a chair. More ice magic came my way, but I ducked and chased it with three quick fireballs. One very nearly missed, but they all did land on their target.

Another blast of ice, another jerk to the side, and I decided to duck right up to the demon. It wasn’t terribly far. Either it wasn’t at all intimidated by me, or it was simply very stupid, because it didn’t even try to move away, and I was able not only to get all up in its space, but also to stab it through whatever made up its center with Maleficent’s blade.

And when I turned, the rest of the battle was, as expected, well under control. Not done, no, but hardly a mess. Fenris had Danarius so distracted that there were no more demons being summoned, and between Malia’s knives and Sebastian’s arrows, those demons still standing were quickly disappearing.

Garrett, for his part, was focused on Danarius with a strange look in his eye. He muttered something I couldn’t hear or recognize, but I suspected he was trying to undo the shields Danarius had up. (If only I’d bothered to learn how to use Dispel, or whatever that counter-magic was that Daylen used to use.)

While he worked on that, I added my abilities to decimating Danarius’ little army. It didn’t take much at all. Perhaps a minute or two, and then…

Danarius started to say something condescending to Malia, who held her blade at his throat. He didn’t get to finish; Fenris’ lyrium-enhanced abilities allowed him to break right through that mysterious glowing shield spell (possibly with the help of whatever it was, exactly, that Garrett was doing). A heart beat in Fenris’ palm once. He crushed it for all to see, which was frankly very gross and probably difficult to remove from his nails and armor.

Danarius turned in shock, then fell to the floor. He wasn’t quite dead—wouldn’t be for a few more moments. I wondered how long one could last without a beating heart. I stared down at him, watching as his eyes took in the next few moments, knowing they were his last.

Fenris paid him no mind. Neither did anyone else, in fact. They all started to move away, to where Varania stood against a wall. Before I followed, I crouched down to force Danarius to look me in the eye.

“You deserved worse,” I told him. “Dread Wolf take you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so life is still a whole bunch of ??????? for me because fuck me i guess but at least i have time to write fairly consistently?
> 
> also jsyk guys i have approximately four ideas that all mean very different things for the rest of act iii so if this act is a Mess, well, at least you know why lmfao (i'll try to make sure it at least kind of makes sense)


	30. there's just so much

Malia, being the slightly-eccentric person she is, happily stole Danarius’ staff and put it on display in her home. Leandra had to be convinced to allow it, but it did happen, in the end. Fenris invited Varania to stay at his home initially, apparently not fond of the idea that she stay indefinitely in a tavern, but the Hawkes were quick to cut in with an offer of space in their own home, given the… well, disrepair, to put it nicely, of Fenris’ ‘home.’

(I thought to myself that it was a good thing the Hawke Estate had so many rooms, but at this rate, there would be none left unoccupied.)

Somehow, all of our friends ended up invited over for dinner, ostensibly to celebrate Danarius’ death. Merrill seemed delighted to meet Varania, and even more delighted that she was a mage—I saw her give more than one pointed look to Fenris over the course of the night, all of which he deliberately ignored.

Even Donnic showed up, but since he was effectively part of the package with Aveline, no one was surprised. Fenris seemed pleased, by the grin he gave when Donnic congratulated him.

Leandra, though she pretended to be exacerbated by her children’s habit of collecting strays (myself included), kept smiling through the meal, insisting on making sure everyone had enough to eat and that no one’s glass was empty for long. She steered Varania from a possibly disastrous conversation about the status of southern mages, saving us all from hearing another of Anders’ lectures.

“Are you Dalish as well, then, Merrill?” asked Varania, as the conversation came to a natural lull. She seemed tired of talking about herself—or perhaps she was simply unused to it.

“Oh, yes!” Merrill answered. “Um, but I haven’t seen my clan in a while. I’m staying in the city, you see. The Hawkes were kind enough to help me.”

Varania hummed. “I’ve known a few Dalish, in the Imperium. There aren’t many, though, as you can imagine.”

I watched Merrill push her vegetables a little. “Ah, yes… We don’t really go that far north, most of the time. Not by choice, anyway.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine so.” It wasn’t that no one else was speaking—Fenris and Garrett were having a very intense discussion about nugs just down the table—but the conversation about my people was simply, predictably, harder for me to ignore, even if I wanted to.

“My clan is not far,” I said, impulsive as ever. “If you would like to meet them, Varania.”

She gave me a long, measured look. I got the same feeling from her then as I often did from Capella and Castor—that she was trying to figure me out, and was using all the context she had to reassess whatever assumptions she’d already made. “No, but thank you, Vir’era. It’s a very kind offer. I think it’s best that I remain in the city, don’t you? I’ve missed so much time with Leto—Fenris, excuse me.”

At his name, Fenris looked down the table. He didn’t quite smile at Varania—but he raised a cup in her direction. She raised hers in response, and I wondered if I had missed something crucial.

Fenris took me aside when the night grew long and I was starting to make my excuses so that I could head to bed. Like Anders had not so long ago, he stood with me in my room to speak with me in private. They were alike in as many ways as they were not, I mused, but did not make the comparison aloud.

“I am not stupid,” he said to me first, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed so casually. The red satin Malia had tied around his wrist in jest three years ago was still there, worn but clean. It was the only colorful thing he owned—or, at least, the only one he’d kept.

“No,” I agreed, but I didn’t know why he’d be asserting this. We didn’t often have long, in-depth discussions, in part because of our disagreements over the treatment of mages in southern Thedas, but also because we rarely had enough overlapping free time, especially since I’d become First of Clan Sabrae. “I hope you don’t truly believe I think that of you.”

“I do not,” he said, his voice as casual as his demeanor. The light was dim, enough that perhaps a human might have trouble seeing his features clearly, but I could tell he was watching me as carefully as he watched anything. “I know Varania did not bring Danarius here so I could kill him.”

I swallowed down a gasp. What was the best course of action? “Then why did she bring him here?” (This could not be it.)

He stared at me. “I do not know. Why did she?”

“She’s your sister,” I said, instead, but immediately knew it was no better an attempt than the first. (Why hadn’t I asked Capella to teach me how to manipulate people when I had the chance?) Still, I stuck with it, just on the off-chance. “I’m sure she only wants what’s best for you.”

“Vir’era,” he said, standing straight up now. He uncrossed his arms. “I know you were involved. Tell me why.”

This time, though I didn’t have any answers that didn’t make me out to be some kind of nosy busybody—which perhaps I was—I at least could be truthful. Mostly. “She’s your sister,” I repeated. “And whatever reasons she had to bring Danarius… I don’t know that family is always the most important thing in the world, but I know it is important, and that having the chance for you to know her, for her to know you… When she knew it was you, she knew it mattered more.”

“She could not have tricked him so well,” Fenris said. “He was too paranoid for that. She brought him here for some other reason, and you… convinced her not to take it.”

The ‘other reason,’ which we both knew well, went unsaid. I shrugged, looking away. “I had to try.”

He hummed, a short and quiet thing, almost background noise. “You do not lie well.” I shrugged again. Would I ever learn to lie? It seemed unlikely, at this rate. Then he placed a hand on my arm, quite possibly the first time he’d ever voluntarily touched me outside of battle, and I couldn’t help looking back up at him. He was smiling—it was a very, very small smile, hardly more than a stretch of his lips, but it was there, and I thought I understood in that moment just why Malia would wait for him until the end of time. “Thank you,” he said, squeezing my arm just once.

“You’re my friend,” I said, a little dazed, a lot honored. “I’d do it again.”

His smile grew just enough to notice. “I am glad.”

I never could figure out exactly what his feelings were on Varania’s motivations, even after that, and I did not ask. It was not my place to ask, if he did not wish to volunteer, but I was happy that they seemed to enjoy being able to get to know each other. I was happy to know I had helped.

 

The next time I went to my clan, Pol and Mheganni were at Littlefoot’s tree, apparently waiting for me. Pol was stewing about something; I could sense this even as I flew down, just watching the way he pressed a stick through the dirt and made a trench. Neither were terribly surprised when I transformed in front of them, as they had grown used to my comings and goings in such a way, and I always tried to ensure they were aware I was present before returning to my natural shape.

“Aneth ara,” Mheganni said, then nudged her knee against Pol’s when he was silent.

“Aneth ara,” Pol echoed, almost sullen. I didn’t have time to ask what was the matter before Pol continued with, “The Keeper does not think I should receive vallaslin.”

I frowned. Pol was city-born, yes, but he was an adult—had been since not long after arriving with the clan—and he’d been with Clan Sabrae for… well, roughly seven years. Most Dalish didn’t even apprentice that long. “Did she say why not?”

They both gave me a look, and Mheganni said, “Because he is city-born. Some of the hahrens do not think he should, because they say vallaslin are only for the Dalish.”

“And they say I will never be Dalish.” Pol’s stick broke when he pushed it too hard, and he threw the halves off. Mheganni’s newest animal acquisition, a fox, ran off after them.

I felt for Pol. It was hard to explain in words how I could understand—to the Dalish, I would always be so, as I had been born Dalish (or so it seemed to them, to any who did not know what my journal said), and I bore the vallaslin to prove it. To most, in fact, this was true, even if I also carried the title (and burden) of Grey Warden. But I knew that it was painful to leave your home and culture behind, to try and join with a new one, to do all you can and still not be enough.

“You’re Dalish in all ways that matter,” I said, and firmly believed it to be true. “You’ve lived with us seven years—that is longer than I have been with this clan. You are a greater part of Clan Sabrae than me, in some ways. I have never doubted your loyalty to the clan… you deserve your vallaslin.”

“The Keeper’s the one who decides that,” Pol said. He scuffed a shoe against the ground. “Thank you, though. You’ve always been kind.”

“I’ll speak with her.” I had no reason to believe it would go poorly. Marethari was more distant these days than she had ever been, but she still cared deeply for her clan; the only thing she and I ever disagreed about was Merrill, and even then we more often avoided the subject altogether.

Mheganni smiled, and I thought that she’d brought Pol here specifically so that I could do something about this. She might have even tried herself, but Mheganni had never been very close to Marethari, nor good at changing the Keeper’s mind. (Not that anyone was very good at that. Marethari was a very stubborn woman.)

Pol didn’t protest, so I went to the Keeper immediately, and they followed behind. She was at the central fire, as she usually was, so it wasn’t hard to find her. I lifted a hand in greeting, calling, “Keeper.”

“Vir’era,” she returned, nodding. She didn’t smile—but I hadn’t seen her smile in months, so I was unsurprised. “Aneth ara. Your week went well?”

“It did, Keeper, ma serannas.” I didn’t give her details, and she did not ask. “I have a question regarding Pol.”

Her eyes flicked to him, but her expression didn’t change. “You know you need never fear asking a question. I will do my best to answer.”

“Why do you not wish him to receive vallaslin?”

She sighed, eyes closing briefly. “It is not my wish, da’len, but the will of the clan. I may be Keeper, but that does not mean I can ignore tradition—”

“Tradition is that those who undertake an apprenticeship receive their vallaslin when they have finished it, if they have not received it prior.” A Keeper could give vallaslin early to those who were ready, even if their apprenticeship was unfinished; no apprentice was ever ready to leave that position until they had reached such a point as the Keeper was also willing to give vallaslin. “Yet Pol has finished an apprenticeship and still has no vallaslin.”

“I know, da’len, but Pol is—”

“Not Dalish?” I interrupted. Her lips thinned. I couldn’t tell what she thought of that idea—did she think he was not Dalish, or agree that he was? “He has been with our clan longer than I have, Keeper. He knows the traditions of Clan Sabrae better than me. I see no reason why he should not be as accepted as I am, when I spend more days among shemlen.”

Several members of the clan had surrounded us and were listening intently. Most didn’t seem willing to express any opinion either way, but I saw Junar nod along with my words even as Hahren Linara frowned and glared at both me and Pol.

Marethari did not give. “It is not a matter of how long he has been here—certainly, none among us doubts his dedication to the clan. He has been a good help to have, and no one regrets allowing him entry. Any children he has will be Dalish.”

“So why not him?”

“Because he is city-born,” Linara said, stepping forward when Marethari started to falter. “It is that simple.”

“Is there nothing he can do to prove himself as worthy as any others of our clan?” I shot back, growing frustrated. Were it up to me, Pol would have had his vallaslin already. So what if he’d been born in a city? So what if he’d grown up there? He was here now, he was dedicated, he had proven it time and time again…

Linara began to sneer, likely about to deny the possibility, but Marethari put a hand to her arm and stopped the words from coming. “There is something he can do,” she said. Linara was hardly pleased with this, but even she didn’t question the Keeper. “There is a book in Kirkwall, under the city, called the Fell Grimoire. It concerns the Forbidden Ones. If you bring it to me, Pol, I will allow you to receive vallaslin.”

At this, Linara did turn and stare, jaw dropped, at Marethari. “Fetching a _book_?”

“It is not so easy as it sounds, Linara,” Marethari reassured, but the words worried me. “The Fell Grimoire—and, indeed, all knowledge concerning the Forbidden Ones—is more closely guarded than one would expect. That it has remained in Kirkwall all these years is only evidence of this.”

(Something about these words niggled at me. Forbidden Ones. Fell Grimoire. A book beneath Kirkwall. It all sounded so familiar, but what did it mean? I’d have to consult my journal and hope the information was there.)

Linara didn’t smile, but she backed down to Marethari’s words. All eyes turned to Pol. It was his decision. I doubted Marethari would be so kind as to give him a different task. She still stayed in the clan most of the time, but getting any conversation out of her… Suffice to say, they didn’t all go as well as this one had.

Pol inclined his head, a half-bow appropriate for the situation. “Ma serannas, Keeper. I will not fail you. Dirthavara.”

It wasn’t any kind of formal oath, nor was it an ancient invocation of Elvish words or Dalish rites, but it was enough that even Linara didn’t frown. Small victories. Marethari nodded her acceptance. “You may bring help. There is no telling what may await.”

Unsurprisingly, Pol asked Junar and Mheganni to go with him. He also asked for my aid, though, citing my familiarity with the city. “Plus, I really don’t know cities as well as one might think. I grew up in Denerim, but I never visited any others.”

“I’d be happy to help,” I told him, and he smiled at me.

“Ma serannas, Vir’era.”

 

Mheganni and I spent the afternoon in a clearing with Edelweiss and her various animal companions. Revas watched from overhead, mostly not interacting, but Teddy the chipmunk explored our surroundings with delight, and the fox she hadn’t named brought us sticks to throw for her.

“Why haven’t you named her?” I asked.

Mheganni shrugged, throwing the current stick in a graceful arc. “I cannot find a good name. It has to fit her, but no name I have tried works.”

I remembered helping her name Teddy; she had similar troubles then. “Would you like help?”

“You may as well try. It won’t hurt anything if you’re unsuccessful.” She ruffled the fox’s fur when the stick was brought back and threw it off again in another easy movement.

I couldn’t think of any good names quickly. Todd came to mind, but it was a boy’s name, so I brushed it to the side without lingering. “What sort of name do you think would fit?”

“I don’t know. I found her nearly half-drowned, but she seems no worse for it.” When the fox drew near with her prize, she spun in brief celebratory circles. (Or, at least, I assumed they were celebratory. I could think of no other reason for them.)

“Mm.” Foxes were often tricksters in lore, but that didn’t quite suit this one. I remembered a story like one sees through thick fog, something about a fox, something about a whirlpool… But the rest eluded me. Whirlpools, though, with high energy and their circular patterns—now, there was a thought. “Did I ever tell you of Charybdis and her sister, Scylla?”

“No. Dirth ma.”

“The story goes that they were sisters, and fearsome creatures, each…” I didn’t remember everything, couldn’t remember their parents’ names or why they had become sea-monsters, but I remembered that Charybdis was a whirlpool. Or caused one, maybe. I remembered that Scylla was the calmer of the two, but still bloodthirsty.

There was another story, one of a man traveling home from war, in which Charybdis threatened his life and that of all his men, so they stayed nearer to Scylla, and still lost lives in the effort of crossing.

“I like that name,” Mheganni said at last. “Charybdis. Perhaps it will remind her not to befriend the next nug I try to hunt.”

I laughed, and we continued our lazing. I watched Charybdis move, deciding to learn her shape the way I’d learned those of Revas and Edelweiss. I could still remember Morrigan insisting that more shapes was always good. Perhaps I’d try studying Teddy, too, someday. Was there such a thing as too many shapes? Could I forget one if I did not use it enough?

 

I flew into Kirkwall ahead of Pol, Junar, and Mheganni. I told them I wanted to ensure nothing had come up that needed my attention first, but the truth was that I wanted to check my journal for any information it might have about the Forbidden Ones.

When I checked it, though, I found nothing. I could not do an in-depth search of the words, but I had read it enough times to know: there was nothing. I could’ve cursed my own lack of information, if only because I knew it was familiar in some daunting way. Still, if I had no information, at least I could prepare for what we might find.

It wasn’t hard to figure that the Forbidden Ones were likely demons of some sort. Unless, of course, the Forbidden Ones were related to the Forgotten Ones, which wasn’t impossible, given the dearth of knowledge I had regarding either. I wondered how we were supposed to find this book—if ‘under Kirkwall’ was all we had to go off of, it could take us quite a long time. Kirkwall, after all, was no small town.

I needn’t have worried. Mheganni brought Pol and Junar to the clinic, and though neither man seemed to know what to think of Kirkwall, they kept their mouths shut on the subject. Pol brought out a book and showed it to me. “The Keeper gave it to me before we left. She said you should be able to read it. Apparently it tells where the Grimoire is, exactly.”

He didn’t sound terribly sure, but I took it anyway. All three were already wearing armor and weapons, which made them stick out even more than their vallaslin did, even down in Darktown. “Are any of you good with elfroot potions?” I asked, more to keep them busy while I worked on the book.

“I am,” Mheganni said, and needed no further instruction; I stood from the seat at the cauldron, and she took over with natural ease. “Junar, cut the roots there for me.”

Junar moved in to help her, and Pol followed me to sit at the rickety table Anders and I kept. I pushed the most recent iteration of his manifesto to the side. Anders glanced up from the patient he was helping at the sound of the papers, but didn’t stop me, and I did try to keep them in whatever order it was they had—if they were in any order. (I couldn’t tell.)

Pol and I sat and opened the book. There was no table of contents at the front, nor index at the back. It wasn’t a large book, at least—perhaps seventy pages, and of those, only about half were legible, anyway. We both sighed, but started in.

 

It took us four hours to find even a hint, and by that time, Varric decided to come see what was going on. “Mittens! What’s all the fuss about? Daisy’s been in a tizzy, saying she saw Princess over there bringing more of her clan into Kirkwall. You aren’t planning to overthrow Meredith without me, are you?”

I snorted. Mheganni didn’t react to the nickname—hadn’t reacted to it in years, despite her initial distaste for it (“Princesses are for _shemlen_ , not elvhen,” apparently). Junar and Pol, however, were quite intrigued, and though they’d both met the Hawkes, neither had met Varric, specifically. “The Keeper has sent Pol on a… quest. It’s nothing so grand as you’re imagining, I’m sure.”

“A quest?” Varric peered at the book, trying to make sense of the letters from upside-down. I doubted he could read much; though most was in Common, all the important things, apparently, were in Elvish, and I was the only one present able to read that reliably. “I don’t know what kind of quests you’ve been on, Mittens, but most quests are pretty grand.”

“We’re looking for a book,” I said.

“Ah. I rescind my previous statement.” He tilted his head, then tapped the page Pol and I were currently on. “Wait, never mind, I stand by it. This is Elvish. I might not be able to read it, but I’ve seen it before. Just what kind of book are you looking for?”

Pol sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s called the Fell Grimoire. You wouldn’t happen to have heard of it, would you?”

“Not a clue,” Varric said. He gave Pol a considering look; perhaps he recognized the Fereldan accent that Pol had never quite managed to rid himself of. “But I do know this city better than pretty much anyone else. Even Blondie doesn’t know Darktown as well as I do.”

I wasn’t sure how true that statement really was, but I wasn’t about to turn down any help Varric felt like offering, either. “Do you know anything about the Forbidden Ones?”

Varric pulled up a chair and settled into it. “That does sound familiar, but I can’t say I remember any details. How about this: you read the Elvish to me, and I’ll tell you if something clicks? And I get to come along on this quest.”

It was the best we had so far. We got back to work, tossing ideas back and forth about the book, the Grimoire, and Kirkwall’s deepest corners. Mheganni and Junar left to get food at some point. Night fell before we finished—not that Darktown looked much different on the darkest night as it did on the brightest day.

By the time we’d narrowed it down to a couple general areas, each with a few more specific nooks, it was long past a reasonable hour for adventuring. We cleared up, and the visiting Sabrae elves insisted on sleeping in the clinic rather than asking the Hawkes or paying for a room at the Hanged Man. At least I didn’t doubt their ability to defend themselves, if any Darktown residents got ideas about ambushing them.

When we headed out the next morning, Garrett insisted on coming, too. I spared a moment to be thankful that Pol had trained the last few years to be proficient with blades, because we were sorely lacking in any close-quarters fighters. My own sparring with Cullen meant I could do it if necessary, but I was still better at a distance.

Unsurprisingly, the first few hidey-holes were busts. I hadn’t expected otherwise, but it was still a bit disappointing. Pol didn’t let it get to him, though; he maintained an air of calm determination. Truth be told, it was an aura I had long since associated with him—the incident three years previously with the varterral had left their mark, but Pol came out stronger for it.

We found the Fell Grimoire in a half-caved-in tunnel not far from the clinic. Mheganni, Junar, and Pol stopped us several times to undo traps so old that the act of defusing them was likely nearly as dangerous as simply walking through one. I was grateful that the clan’s hunters were all taught at least minimal amounts about traps, because even with what I’d learned over my years, I was simply not good at doing more than identifying them.

The fifth trap-littered space gave us a moment’s pause. “Well, at least we know we must be near,” Garrett said, watching Mheganni carefully unwinding some complex wires near the floor. “These traps wouldn’t be here for no reason.”

“Aw, I hope you didn’t just jinx us, Big Bird,” Varric sighed. “If this were a book, you’d have jinxed us, and we’d undo all of this just to find an empty chest.”

“No one’s that cruel, right? An empty chest… Surely they’d leave something behind.”

“My hopes and dreams, maybe.”

“So dramatic.”

“Me? _I’m_ dramatic?” Varric didn’t even pretend to hide his snort or the raised eyebrow he sent Garrett’s way. “Big Bird, you _have_ met your sister, right? Shorter than you, less beardy, taste for angsty elves?”

Garrett chuckled. “You may have a point.”

“There’s no ‘may’ about it. Just admit I’m right.”

“You’re both dramatic.”

“You wound me.”

“You love me.”

“Blast it all, you’ve seen through my disguise. What will we tell Blondie?”

“He doesn’t have to know. It can be our little secret.”

Pol tossed something—a rock?—in the general direction of Garrett’s head. “You two _do_ realize we’re trying to accomplish things here, right? If you’re not going to be helpful, you can at least try not to be distracting.”

“Apologies,” Garrett said, but didn’t sound particularly apologetic. Varric just chuckled a bit, but at least they did stop the back-and-forth they’d been settling into. (Not that I’d particularly minded; there was little I could do, either, except wait for the traps to be made inert, and their banter had been entertaining.)

At long last, we reached the Fell Grimoire. After traps upon traps, it was just… sitting there. Out in the open, not even in a chest. I could sense strong magic coming from it, but exactly what that magic was or _what_ it did, I had no idea. “Be on your guard,” I warned. “It’s heavily spelled—or something. I can’t tell.”

Pol threw a rock at it before I could stop him. Since nothing of note happened, though, it at least didn’t turn out to be as bad an idea as I would have anticipated. Still, that he chose next to poke it several times with a stick was… telling.

The prodding and general abuse did, again, exactly nothing. Eventually, Pol grew bold enough that he touched the book directly, and—nothing. It was still just a book.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Varric grumbled, leaning far enough forward to stare at the unassuming cover.

“I, for one, am thankful. Our lives are exciting enough as is,” Garrett said, but he didn’t touch the book.

Pol ignored them—or at least refused to comment—and opened the book. When, yet again, nothing happened, I decided that nothing _was_ going to happen; after all, if it didn’t respond to touch or being opened, it had to be safe. Safe enough to look through, at least. I joined him in front of it and tried to glean anything I could from the pages as he flipped through them.

“It’s… just a book,” he said, at last. He sounded disappointed.

“It’s still magical somehow,” I reminded, but even so, I couldn’t tell what the magic might be meant to do, or what it was waiting for. “Perhaps Keeper Marethari has a better idea of what it’s—wait, go back to that page.” Pol flipped back a few pages, and I reached out to stop him when we got back to the one that had derailed my train of thought.

It depicted a familiar circle. Not exactly as I remembered, or as the books I’d since read had shown, but the circle was nevertheless familiar. I read further, pressing a hand to the page. A summoning circle, it called itself, though it looked dissimilar to the summoning circles I was accustomed to. No, what this looked like, what it reminded me of, was the circle that Irving had used to save Connor—and the one Marethari had used to help us save Feynriel.

An idea burst into fruition in my mind as I looked closer, at the details unmarred by however long this book had collected dust in this forgotten corner of Kirkwall. This circle was dangerous, that was obvious, but if I understood it the way I thought I did…

I could modify it to save Anders. I could stop Vengeance.

If I was lucky, I could save Justice.

“I need this book,” I whispered.

“What?” Pol demanded.

Over our shoulders, Garrett said, “Vir’era, no. I don’t know what you think you need it for—but that’s a circle for a demon. I can’t let you do that.”

“I just need to study it, that’s all. It’s—look, Garrett, look at the shape of it. Those lines here? Don’t they remind you of the circle we used for Feynriel?” I asked, tracing the ones I spoke about. “I’m sure I can—”

“It’s a demon, Vee! That’s what it _wants_ you to think!”

Garrett had something of a point, but I knew what it felt like when something was interrupting your thoughts. This wasn’t it. This was unrelated. I didn’t know why Marethari wanted this book, beyond what small pieces of Elvish writing I’d seen Pol page past, but I knew I needed it if I wanted to succeed with my own project.

I also knew there was no way I could possibly explain it to Garrett, or to anyone else here. Mheganni would as soon kill Anders. Pol and Junar had no reason to save him. Varric might understand my reasoning, but he had what most would call a healthy fear of magic, and probably would think it as stupid an idea as Garrett would.

And Garrett, though he generally turned a blind eye to Merrill’s use of it, despised anything that seemed even close to blood magic. This, with the demon involved, was close enough to count in his eyes, I was certain. Even if I had no intent to make use of demons or blood magic, Garrett would never trust knowledge from this book.

“Please,” I said, turning to Pol instead. “Let me study it. Just for one night. We can bring it to the Keeper tomorrow; there isn’t time to take it to her today, anyhow.”

He frowned; he didn’t want to agree.

He did anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _aneth ara_ \- greeting  
>  _ma serannas_ \- thank you  
>  _dirth ma_ \- tell me
> 
> -
> 
> hey so im gonna take a moment to be brutally honest: half of the most recent subplots i've brought up came out of nowhere??? so if there's a subplot somewhere that i brought up at any time, even back in fuckin .... the blight idfk, if there's one that you guys notice i haven't given a decent end, let me know? i have ideas on where i'm going with all this shit but there's just.... holy fuck there's so much.................. i don't even know how much longer kirkwall will be because i'm just. and this isn't even all of it.
> 
> i haven't even figured out how to bring the legacy bullshit in god fucking...................


	31. so ink 'em up up up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost want to apologize for how many of my chapter titles are effectively shitposts but i don't really care because i am a shitpost

A single night is never enough to learn all the secrets of any given thing, but it was enough for me to copy the circle with all the accuracy and precision I could muster. I managed to write down most of the pages surrounding it, as well, but they didn’t reveal much more than what the circle already told me, so eventually I put the book aside and allowed myself some sleep.

Though my presence wasn’t necessary for Pol to bring Marethari the Grimoire, I still went. I wanted to make sure everything went well, and couldn’t bear the idea of waiting until the weekend to do so. The only reason I’d’ve had to stay was the clinic, but Anders insisted it was fine.

This time, I traveled with the others. Arriving early would do nothing but leave me to wait for their arrival, and if I left too late I might miss everything. It wasn’t the first time I’d made the trip with another Dalish for company, but it was the first time it’d happened in a group. I enjoyed it. The familiarity, the knowledge that we were all of the same group—it was different from traveling with the Hawkes or the Wardens. It was nice.

One of the clan’s scouts called out to us as we approached—specifically, it was Ellana, Mheganni’s younger sister. “Mheganni! Pol!” she called, jogging into view from the trees to our left. “Ara dareth!”

Mheganni happily hugged her sister, and Pol didn’t hesitate when Ellana latched onto him next. Junar blew a loud raspberry. “Do I not matter, then?” he asked her, poking her arm. She stuck her tongue out at him and, apparently to spite him, decided to give me a hug next. “So rude, Ellana!” he continued.

She shrugged and flounced ahead, beckoning us to follow, and certainly not giving Junar a hug. It was hardly any true offense; Junar seemed happy enough to laugh along with it, and it was likely that I wouldn’t have received a hug myself if he hadn’t needled her into proving some kind of point. (Ellana was kind, but she and I were simply not close.)

“Hahren Linara and Hahren Paivel got into a shouting match after you left,” Ellana told us over her shoulder. “Paivel thinks Pol should have had his vallaslin ages ago, and Linara still thinks no city-born deserve it.”

I wondered what Linara would think if she knew about me. Wherever I had come from… my book said I was not Dalish. I couldn’t remember what I had been, could only remember being Dalish. Would that make a difference? (Useless speculation; I never intended to tell anyone. Theron alone knew the truth, and that’s how it would stay.)

“Paivel’s right,” Junar said, quick as ever to jump to Pol’s defense. “Tell me you agree, Ellana.”

“Of course I do!” Ellana was so incensed by this idea that she actually paused to face us properly, hands on her hips. “Pol’s done so much for the clan—if he wants to receive vallaslin, it should be his choice.”

“Good girl.”

“Oh, don’t you start with that; I’m not one of Mheganni’s pets.”

“They’re not _pets_ , dashalin,” Mheganni protested, but her words had the dull bite of an argument made by habit.

“I know, I know; they’re familiars, or companions, or whatever you’re calling them now.” I thought I could feel Ellana roll her eyes again, like she didn’t understand or care about the difference, and had heard it one too many times. “Kerry chewed through your left glove while you were gone.”

“Charybdis.”

“Kerry.”

“ _Charybdis._ ”

“Kerry.”

“ _Cha-rib-diss._ ”

“Ke—”

“As entertaining as this is,” Pol interrupted, “could you continue it, I don’t know, later? Maybe after I have the Keeper’s approval to get vallaslin?”

“Oh, fine. But only because you asked,” Ellana said, flashing a smile over her shoulder at Pol. He smiled back, shaking his head a little in what I could only assume was amusement, and I started to feel like perhaps Mheganni, Junar, and I should leave the two alone.

“Anything else interesting happen while we were away?” Junar asked. I knew he’d been gone longer for hunts—there were some weekends when I didn’t see him at all because he was on a hunt—but I got the feeling that this had been a very unique experience, and regardless of how long he was away, he wanted to make sure all was well.

Ellana shrugged. “After Vir’era spoke with the Keeper in front of the whole clan like that, it seems like most people agree with us. Hahren Linara isn’t alone, of course, and some people say they’ll go with whatever the Keeper decides in any event, but all the kids definitely agree, and so do most of the people anyone actually likes.”

I had the distinct feeling that she was generalizing too much—Clan Sabrae was small, certainly, but small enough for all of the children to be of one mind about any given subject? (Besides, of course, sweets.) I had my doubts. Still, it was good news, and certainly in our favor.

As we approached the camps themselves, we ran into more people. Most greeted us readily, though there were a few who merely nodded. In a group as small as Clan Sabrae, even if we were large enough to make up a full, proper clan, everyone still knew everyone else, and generally knew everyone else’s business, too. Privacy among the Dalish was… difficult at best, and we hadn’t exactly tried to keep this quiet.

“Wait right here,” Ellana told us, gesturing around the central fire pit. “I’ll fetch the Keeper.”

Really, it should have been no trouble for us to simply follow along to Marethari, but I didn’t doubt that the whole clan wanted to know what would happen—or what had happened, perhaps—and Pol seemed happy to make a scene of it. We’d done as was asked, after all; Pol would receive his vallaslin, and why not be told so in front of all?

Linara frowned at us from off to the side, but Pol paid her no mind. Junar grinned at her, ever cheeky. Many other members of the clan—those who could pause what they were doing, anyway—began to gather as we waited for Ellana to return with Marethari.

We didn’t wait long; soon, Marethari was walking towards us as sedately as ever, her face untroubled and unsurprised at the massing of people for the end of Pol’s somewhat unconventional quest. “Pol,” she said, smiling very slightly at him, “andaran atish’an. You’ve returned successful, I hear.”

“I have,” he said. He presented the Grimoire and the book she’d given him simultaneously, the Grimoire placed on top. “The Fell Grimoire.”

Marethari stared at it for a moment, and as she did, I swore the whole of the mountain held its breath. Had she changed her mind? Did she give this task with the intent that Pol should have been unsuccessful? I liked to think it was not so, but I knew how important tradition was to her. It wasn’t impossible.

At long last, Marethari reached out to take the two books. The collective release of breath from the clan was almost audible, almost as tangible as a true breeze, though I could not rightfully say that it was all in relief. “Ma serannas, da’len. You have done your clan a service once again. You are ready to prepare yourself to receive vallaslin.”

Pol bowed, and I could not see his face, but his voice wavered with such emotion that Varric wouldn’t need to exaggerate it, were he present to record the event. “Ma serannas, Keeper.”

“Vir’era,” Marethari called, and I startled into a more upright stance. “As you are the First, and will one day need to know how to apply vallaslin to all who come of age, it is you who will apply Pol’s vallaslin.”

I nearly protested. Tradition was that only the _Keeper_ applied vallaslin. A First would learn and study, and might apply other tattoos for those who wished them—but not, in most circumstances, the sacred vallaslin. And I, in particular… I had studied the forms of the vallaslin, as part of my training under Marethari. I could draw them all to her standards.

But I had never applied so much as a single tattoo.

Pol stared at me, his jaw clenched so tightly that I saw the veins in his neck standing out. He knew as well as I did that I was unprepared for something of this magnitude. It was an insult wrapped up to look like a gift: Pol would still receive vallaslin, after all. But not from the Keeper, as all others of Clan Sabrae did, and not even from a First tested in the art of tattooing. Even Merrill would have known better how to do this.

He couldn’t refuse, and nor could I.

“…Emma sulevin, Keeper,” I said.

“Ma serannas, Keeper,” he said.

_June, guide my hands that they do not falter._

 

I returned to Kirkwall immediately thereafter, though my stomach continued to churn and I held no confidence that disaster was impending. There were only so many crises I could handle at any given time, and it seemed I was doomed to collect ever more—this year was always destined to be a shitshow. My journal had never called 9:37 Dragon anything good.

I could only be grateful that tradition meant Pol needed to meditate for a time on the gods and take measures to purify his face before I would be expected to ink him. I had until the weekend, at least, and hopefully it would be time enough to prepare. If only I knew which vallaslin he might choose! Andruil seemed likely, as patron goddess of hunters, but everything about Pol tended to be just off from what I expected.

So fixated was I on practicing the vallaslin that I nearly missed meeting with Cullen. When I finally ran up to Hightown, he’d been waiting long enough to be leaning back against one of the pillars in the market, unusual in any event, but even moreso for the fact that he wore his armor.

“Cullen!” I called. “Ir abelas, I lost track of time.”

“I was early anyway. You’re not very late,” he said, and while I did not doubt that was true—he rarely lied about anything, even for politeness—I knew I was nearly a half-hour behind the time I usually arrived. He could well have been waiting an hour. “There’s something I need to tell you. A message. Can we go somewhere more private? Perhaps… the Hawkes’ home may be best.”

I furrowed my brows, immediately feeling off-center. He so rarely asked to go somewhere private in the first place; he never asked to go to the Estate. I saw his hand flex on the hilt of his sword, his eyes flicking briefly around the market, and wondered just what it was that made him so antsy for the kind of near-total privacy we could be afforded at the Hawkes’.

“Of course,” I said, and began leading the way. “Is it—bad? Or urgent?” I hoped it was neither, or if it was bad, that it was at least not urgent. No, wait, priorities: urgent but not bad would be better.

“I am uncertain.” I glanced up to see his lips thinned out almost entirely, face grim. “But you do need to know. I would have told you sooner, but I was made to understand you were busy with your clan.”

Sooner? _Creators have mercy_. I couldn’t imagine what else might require my attention, let alone what sort of thing would be known first to Cullen and only afterwards to me, unless—I nearly stumbled. “Is Mia alright?”

“Mia?” he repeated, looking down at me in bewilderment. “I haven’t—this is not Mia. I haven’t heard from her since the letter I told you about last week. She’s—she _should_ be—fine.”

Back to confusion I went. For all that we spent time together, we did not have enough in common for me to deduce what could be the issue. Were it something to do with Meredith, I doubted Cullen would have waited, even if I was doing things for the clan. But what else could it be?

Malia gave us a confused look as I led Cullen through to my room, but didn’t interrupt us. I shut the door and turned to him, but waited for him to speak.

“There is a mage who arrived at the Gallows a few days ago,” he said. I couldn’t read his body language well with the armor, but his eyebrows seemed more prominent and drawn than ever. “From Kinloch. I—he arrived there after I left. His name is Connor. He says he knows you, and that he needs to speak with you.”

My breath stilled in my lungs at Connor’s name. Why was he here? His letters—they all made it sound like he was having no great trouble in Ferelden’s Circle, beyond that which could be expected of an apprentice who’d been brought in after something as traumatic as what had happened in Redcliffe. But even the Enchanters did not blame him for that, or so he had told me, and he had long since learned how to protect himself from demons.

He was _supposed_ to stay in Kinloch. There was nothing—I knew of no reason for him to come here. It was more dangerous. If Meredith heard of how he’d been—of what he’d been coerced into during the Blight—I had no doubt she’d make him Tranquil. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Vir’era? What is it? Is he… He is not dangerous, is he?” Cullen’s voice pulled me back. “Should I speak with Meredith about him? I hesitate to do so, because we both know she shows no mercy now, but—”

“ _No_!” I interrupted, though my voice came out rather louder than I intended. Cullen balked, the hand that had been reaching out to me flinching back. My heart clenched, and I regretted the outburst immediately. “Ir abelas, ir—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—Connor is not a danger to anyone. He’s… a friend. But his past is…” I huffed, not sure how to word it. For all his improvements where mages were concerned, Cullen was unlikely to take kindly to the full truth of what had happened to Connor. “Something… bad happened when he was very young, before he learned how to protect himself. I won’t speak of it, out of respect for him, but I worry that Meredith would make him Tranquil if she knew. He is in danger here.”

Cullen’s lips pursed and his brows did not unfurrow. “I see. You are—certain he is not dangerous? Kirkwall has enough trouble as it is. We may be able to send him back to Kinloch. He came here voluntarily, according to Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

Voluntarily? Fenedhis! _Mythal protect you, Connor_. “Why?” I demanded, but kept my voice soft enough as to not sound angry. Desperation still came through, but Cullen did not flinch this time.

“I don’t know,” he said, and sounded just as flummoxed by it as me, if less frustrated. “He hasn’t done much since arriving that would be out of the ordinary except to ask if he could speak with you. We were—Meredith didn’t trust that he knew who you were, but when he said he was from Redcliffe, I thought it worth asking.”

‘Worth asking’—if Cullen did not trust me as much as he did, if he had not known about my deep involvement with the efforts to stop the Blight in Ferelden and how it had led to me knowing quite a few people I might not be expected to… Well, suffice to say that it was doubtless in my mind that he would not have even entertained the notion of letting me know a transferred mage was asking for me. Not one from Kinloch, even if he didn’t recognize them.

(Was it truly my own choices that had led to my friendship with Cullen, or was it fate? I knew it was a good thing, but the consequences I’d so far encountered—they were even more beneficial than I had expected, and that was without accounting for my genuine enjoyment of his company. Nothing could make me regret pursuing this.)

“Thank you, Cullen.” I sat on my bed and leaned against the bedpost, gesturing vaguely at the lone chair in offer. He took it. “I—the, ah… The things with my clan are not quite finished. I’ve got a duty I am ill prepared for, and I cannot… Fenedhis. Is Connor safe?”

Used to my ramblings and self-interruptions, Cullen nodded. “He is. I will have to tell Meredith that you’re familiar with him, from during the Blight, to ensure his continued safety.”

“Don’t—if you can, please, don’t ask him too much about how he was sent to the Circle. It is—he wasn’t—there are no fond memories of that time.” Phrasing it without telling Cullen anything to hint at exactly what had happened was difficult, but even for all his trust in me, I couldn’t be certain Cullen would not advocate the immediate culling of any mages who had been possessed, even if they had been saved as Connor had.

(Would he ever approve of my plans to save Anders? Certainly, as it was, he did not even know that Anders was, by Chantry definition, an abomination, and I would not tell him if I could avoid it—but if I could prove that they could be saved… Would he approve? I wanted him to, but I doubted he would, not after what happened to him. Not after Uldred.)

“Of course.” It was clear Cullen himself was thinking of Uldred and the horrors from Kinloch Hold during the Blight—he refused to look me in the eye, his jaw was tight again, his fists clenched. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” I said again, then, because it felt appropriate, “ma serannas. I cannot see him now, if it is not urgent that he speak with me. The task my Keeper gave is—I need to devote all the time I can to readying for it. But next week. After the weekend, when I return to Kirkwall, it should be fine. I—I’ll go straight to the Gallows to speak with Connor.”

“I’ll pass on the message.” After a few moments of quiet, where the mood relaxed from the tension that built as it always did when we drew too near to speaking of the Blight, he asked, “Is it… May I ask what it is you’re expected to do for your clan? If I can help…”

I blinked, surprised despite myself. “I—it’s a, um. A Dalish tradition. You know we bear vallaslin, the tattoos on our faces.” He nodded. “They are representative of our gods; mine belongs to Ghilan’nain. Traditionally, it is the Keeper who applies vallaslin to the members of their clan, but… Keeper Marethari has decided I shall do it this time.”

“I see.” A pause. “I… do not think I can help you with that. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine; I didn’t expect you would. Short of practicing the art on someone, I don’t know that there is anything which will truly prepare me.”

The door flew open at that, and both of us jumped up. Cullen reached for his sword, but did not draw it, thankfully. “Did you say tattooing?” Malia asked, loud and exuberant as she flounced into the room. “You want to tattoo someone?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I started, but before I could continue, she wrapped her arm around my shoulders.

“Wonderful! Tattoo me. I would love it. Please!”

Garrett, with one hand pinching his nose, followed after rather more calmly. “You don’t have to, of course,” he told me, and gave Malia a Look when she started to interrupt. “If it will make it more difficult for you, I’m certain Malia can stand to wait.”

“Party pooper.”

“This is about Vir’era, not you.”

I chuckled quietly at them. “It’s—it’s fine, Garrett. Unexpected, but fine. It may help, actually.”

“I’ll just…” Cullen shifted, standing up and gesturing out the door.

“Already?” I couldn’t help the disappointment. We’d barely spent twenty minutes together.

“I—there was something else, but it’s clear you’re busy, and it was nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he said, armor clanking faintly as he scooted in the direction of the door. Garrett stepped aside graciously. “I should let you get to it. Practicing. It sounds important, and I’d only be in the way.”

I wanted to press him, maybe find out what it was he was hiding. What had he wanted to talk about that was now so unimportant? And I hadn’t even asked why he was wearing armor today; he may have been hoping to spar. But he disappeared before I could get the words together to ask anything tactfully with consideration for Garrett and Malia’s presence.

“Sorry about that,” Malia said, staring after Cullen. “I didn’t mean to scare him off or anything. Do I smell?” She made a show of sniffing her shirt and pits.

“No worse than usual,” Garrett told her. “But, then again, he does seem to run off whenever you appear, so perhaps that’s enough.”

“As if he’s any better with you!”

“Yes, but I’m a known apostate. A Templar’s worst nightmare.”

“Second-worst. I know Merrill’s sweet, but I’m fairly certain Templars are still more afraid of blood magic. With reason.”

“Malia’s right,” I said, absently, wondering why the two were present in the first place. “Blood magic is their worst nightmare. It can overcome Templar abilities.”

There was a pause. “Huh,” Malia said, like she was considering something, but I hoped to all that was good in the world that she wasn’t. “Good to know. On a different note, how’s about it, Vee? Will you ink my skin? I have ideas already.”

“Uh, I…”

“Hold on, Malia!” Garrett exclaimed, putting a hand on her shoulder. I think he meant it to calm her; if not, that’s what it did, anyhow. “Vee, have you ever even tattooed a person before? Isn’t that why you were saying that you need to practice?”

“Not on a person,” I admitted. “But I’ve been taught everything else, and the Keeper had me practice on fruits.”

Garrett squinted at me. “Fruits.”

“Grapefruits have a similar reaction as skin to being, um… punctured repeatedly with ink.”

“Uh-huh.”

Malia held up her hand. “I still volunteer. I trust you, Vee. And if it’d help you, well! Why not?”

I had a feeling one of us would come to regret this. Then again, Garrett already seemed to.

 

Somehow—and I would never fully understand just quite how—Malia managed to convince me to practice on her. I couldn’t really refuse politely after she found and purchased the tools and ink I’d need. (My ‘true’ tools were on Sundermount, where I’d left them, having not foreseen any situation like this.) Atop that, she _also_ managed to convince Garrett, Anders, Varric, and Isabela to let me tattoo them, and convinced me to follow through on that. It didn’t all happen simultaneously, thank the Creators, but it did happen.

First was Malia’s tattoo. Initially, she pleaded with me to ink red across her nose in that streak she often put on like war paint. This I refused. “Malia, I appreciate that you want to help, but I’m untested! If I were to mess up…”

“That’s _why_ we’re doing this, Vee! Come on, please? It’d look so cool, and I’d never have to make do with blood.” She even fluttered her lashes at me, as if that’d change my mind.

“No, Malia. Something else, please.” I didn’t fuel her argument; if I tried to reason with her, I was aware she would turn things around and try all the harder to convince me it was perfectly acceptable to simply do as she asked. She wasn’t as good as Capella at manipulation, but by the gods, she was still good. Blunt refusal tended to work better.

“I trust you. Please?”

“I said no.”

“Pleeeeeeeease?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No, Malia.”

“What if I got Sebastian to let you practice on him, too?”

I nearly choked; the image which immediately came to mind was Sebastian, shirtless, even if I knew he’d never agree to something like this. Malia grinned widely, a glint in her eyes like she’d smelled blood, and I had to shut it down quickly before it got out of hand. “For the last time, Malia! No! Besides, you and I both know he’d never agree. It’s not a very Andrastian thing to do. Or princely.”

“The way he tells it, he wasn’t always very princely, anyhow,” she said, but she leaned back with a sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll pick something boring. What colors can you do with those inks?”

A short discussion later, and I was preparing her skin. She’d settled on something much less absurd: the lines of the Amell crest on the back of her neck. I was thankful it was something simple, too; though I knew how to draw vallaslin without fail, and was able to copy lines or write words, I was no true artist, and attempting any likeness was beyond my capabilities.

Garrett was a much less difficult person. He, too, asked me to use the Amell crest in my practice on his skin, though not before inspecting how Malia’s turned out. His went onto his left arm, and I tried to take greater care with it, if only because he so rarely wore sleeves.

Isabela ambushed me in the clinic the day after, almost raving about the Hawkes’ tattoos, and demanded her own. “I _need_ one, Vee. I refuse to be left out of this party.”

“You’re hardly being left out of anything,” I pointed out, but I knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and began to lead her to the Darktown entrance to the Hawke estate, where my tools were. “It’s not like I’ve been handing tattoos out to everyone. Just Malia and Garrett. I doubt Fenris would want one.”

“Yes, well, Fenris has more than enough experience with tattoos,” she said. “I don’t. I want some. Give me some. Something cool, like a dragon. Can you do a dragon?”

I sighed and wondered if I might not be better off simply denying her outright. “Nothing so complicated. I’m trained for vallaslin, not art. I can do lines of varying complexity, or words, or maybe a very, very simple drawing.”

“Piss. You’re not getting out of this, though, don’t you dare think you’re off the hook. I’m getting in on the tattoos.” She tapped a finger against her lip as we walked. I dreaded whatever ideas might come next. Scaling down from dragon might take a while. “How about me, victorious and gorgeous?”

“On yourself?”

“Why not?”

I had no argument. “What about that sounds at all ‘very, very simple’ to you, Isabela?”

She flapped a hand, but didn’t seem terribly disappointed. “Okay, fine, Mr. Simplicity. How about… a skull and crossbones? You know, because I’m a pirate.”

“That’s still more complicated than I’m willing to try.”

“You’re no fun. Hmm. A crown. Big, gold, lots of jewels.”

“I can do a yellow circle with colored dots.”

She snickered. “Now, that’d confuse some people. Okay, no crown. But shapes are okay, right? Simple shapes, like circles or whatever?”

Finally, she seemed to be getting it as we reached my room. “Yes, I can do those. Maybe even something as complicated as a pentagon.”

“So, you know those tattoos. The ones lots of sailors get on their arms. With the hearts.”

“The ones that have ‘Mom’ written in them?”

“Yes.”

I squinted at her, but she didn’t meet my eyes. “You want a heart with ‘mom’ in it.”

“Well, maybe not ‘mom.’”

Oh. Oh, Creators. I shouldn’t be a part of this, shouldn’t encourage her, but at the same time, I found myself grinning, delighted. “…Kitten.”

“I was thinking I’d use her name, but, well… yes.” She coughed and crossed her arms. “Well? Can you do it or not, Vir’era?”

“I can do it.”

“Good. Now… hurry up, before I change my mind.”

(It was hardly the best heart-with-a-name that had ever been inked, but Isabela was pleased with the results. Merrill was, too, after the initial surprise.)

 

As for Varric and Anders, well. They were much simpler, thankfully. Unlike Malia and Isabela, they didn’t ask me to do anything I was either unwilling or unable to do. In fact, Varric made it a point to first ask me what I was capable of before even figuring out his options. Anders’ desired design was simple enough that I didn’t even need to rein him in.

“Okay, so simple shapes and lines. You did the Amell crest just fine, and I saw Isabela’s heart,” Varric said. “So, hear me out. Nothing too complicated, right? Kirkwall city crest, my whole back.”

“Your… _whole_ back?” That would take forever.

“Yeah.”

“Um, how about… your shoulder. It does take time. And hurt, even after.”

“Okay, okay. But my whole shoulder.”

“Just the crest lines is alright?”

“If you insist.”

“It’ll be a lot easier. And you can add more later, if you want. With an actual tattoo artist.”

He laughed and clapped my arm. “It’s a deal, Mittens.” Then he took off his shirt and we got to work.

Anders, who watched this entire exchange, subjected himself to my needle afterwards. He presented both of his arms to me, palms up. “I want words. Justice on my right arm. Vengeance on my left. To remind me.”

I peered into his eyes. It was only Anders speaking, and there was rarely any indication of how close Justice was to the surface until Anders was fighting him off, until the supernatural glowing began, but I thought I could sense him anyhow. I thought that maybe he approved. I hoped he did, and that he’d approve of my other plans, too.

“I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dashalin_ \- younger female relative; created by me: mix of 'da' [prefix for little], 'asha' [woman], and 'lin' [blood, used also for things like bloodkin]  
>  _andaran atish'an_ \- formal greeting  
>  _ma serannas_ \- thank you  
>  _da'len_ \- little one, affectionate diminutive, used for anyone younger than the speaker, esp. clan elders to everyone else  
>  _emma sulevin_ \- lit. 'full of purpose,' meant to be 'of course' equivalent. created by me.  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i'm sorry  
>  _fenedhis_ \- mild expletive


	32. i see a bare face and i want to paint it black

When the weekend rolled around, I was as ready as could be reasonably expected, given the circumstances. I dallied with breakfast, taking time I normally didn’t, and my tea was cold by the time I finished it. This, more than anything, made me realize that delaying would do no one any good—least of all Pol, who had waited so long already.

So I hurried to camp, flying perhaps a bit faster than necessary, which left me panting after I landed and transformed back near Littlefoot’s tree. Mheganni was waiting for me. Pol wasn’t, but he wouldn’t be brought out of meditation until the last minute—which was, coincidentally, also when he’d tell me which god he wished to represent.

I hoped it was Ghilan’nain, though I knew it would not be; I hoped such not because she was my own patron (though it did mean I felt greater kinship with those who bore her vallaslin), but because her vallaslin was a simple one, and would mean less pain and less time for me to completely fuck up. But Pol had never, in my time knowing him, identified at all with Ghilan’nain. Perhaps he’d choose Andruil, like Junar.

Mheganni walked with me to Marethari’s aravel, where the Keeper waited. “Aneth ara, da’len. Are you ready for this task?”

“I think so,” I said, unwilling to force a confidence I did not feel for something so very daunting. I would do it, because I had to, but I did not doubt that I was not truly ready for this.

Marethari didn’t comment on my hesitation; she just smiled a distant, enigmatic smile, and gestured me into her aravel. It was cramped inside, full of the tools and books a Keeper was expected to look after for her clan, with barely enough space for the pile of furs that served as a bed at one end. “This is your first step to truly becoming the future Keeper of our clan,” she said, stepping with ease over a small pile of books to a cabinet built into the wall. “It is important that you are ready for that duty at any time. We cannot predict what the future holds.”

I followed after her gingerly, doing my best to both listen and avoid disturbing whatever method of organization she employed. “No one can,” I agreed, but hoped my journal was not wrong, and that I did know some things, at least. “We can only prepare.”

“Indeed.” Another enigmatic smile. I thought this one looked almost proud. Maybe I was just seeing what I hoped to see. “I have taken the liberty to prepare something for you in this vein, da’len. A gift…and a burden.”

I swallowed, but stayed silent as she opened the cabinet. From my angle, it was difficult to see inside, but what I glimpsed was a chaotic jumble of things—a pile of fur and cloth and leather that seemed formless to me, like each piece connected into the other, yet all seemed completely unattached. Marethari pulled down something just out of my sight, then presented it to me.

Fur and cloth and leather again. I recognized the bear fur from one of Pol and Mheganni’s hunts this past winter; some of the leather looked like it was from the same animal. The cloth, though—it was a fine cloth, dark green and well-made, soft to the touch. It was not so rich as to make me gape, but the only people I knew who could easily and readily afford cloth like this were the Hawkes.

“You should put it on,” Marethari said. “There are some traditions that need not change; a Keeper always dresses the part to give vallaslin to one who has earned it.”

And that happened a few times a year, but not more than four in a clan our size. I carefully began to unfold the gift, knowing now that it could only be ceremonial Keeper robes. New ones, made just for me, in the style of Clan Sabrae. I swallowed. “Keeper…”

“They may not be a perfect fit, but they will do for today.” She brushed a hand over my shoulder. “Put them on, da’len. I will wait outside, if you need help.”

It took me a long moment after she left to convince my limbs to move. I felt as though these robes had paralyzed me, because even if Marethari did not plan on dying, even if she did not know how soon her death would come… In that moment, I thought that perhaps she had some inkling, that perhaps she was trying to ensure her clan’s safety in this.

I could not put into words how honored I felt to be granted that trust. I could only pray I would prove worthy of it. ( _Ghilan’nain, Halla Mother, lead me that I may lead them._ ) For once, though… For once, I actually believed I was doing all I could to earn this. I believed I could do well.

The robes were easy enough to put on. The base was in that fine green fabric, and though it was perhaps a bit looser on me than was typical, I felt regal. The sleeves reached all the way down my arms and a bit over my hands; I would need to be careful when inking Pol’s vallaslin so that the golden embroidery at the hem, which had a pattern to match that of my own vallaslin, did not become stained. The neck, similarly, was covered in gold-threaded embroidery, and reached up to cover my nape.

The skirt of the base robes nearly touched the floor of the aravel when I stood straight, and was allowed to open with movement from where the robes were tied together at my right hip. I had a pair of knit trousers to wear underneath, dyed a shade of deep brown that matched the leather piece of the ensemble.

The piece in question was a corset, though thinking of it as a normal corset was as accurate as thinking of a mage’s robes as a ‘dress.’ Not wrong, per se, but the intent was different, here, and that counted for something. There was no armor in the ceremonial robes but for the corset, which, though made of hardened rather than soft leather, was not much for protection.

It was mostly for show—and, to this end, had been decorated carefully in gold-plated metal, elaborately and beautifully joined to the leather. The pattern here was much the same as the embroidery, and I remembered belatedly that the heraldry for Clan Sabrae was a halla, so it was appropriate twice over.

The final touch was a gorgeous bearskin vest. It was long, as was typical for a Dalish Keeper—and had been so since the time of the Dales—and nearly reached the same length as the robes themselves. The fur, which had been kept and now lined the inside of the garment, was so soft to the touch that I wondered if some magic had not been used to make it so. The back, much like the corset, had bright metal bonded to it, though here it was a full rendering of a golden halla.

The whole of it was so perfect that I nearly cried for the love I all but felt poured into it. The clan had never made me feel less than accepted, but in that moment, I knew they truly did appreciate my presence, that I wasn’t just some interloper.

I exited the Keeper’s aravel with my head held high. Someday, this would be my duty, my honor, and my burden. Today, it was little more than practice—albeit a very _practical_ application, since Pol would have to live forever with the results. I steadied my breath and my hands.

Marethari grasped my arm and smiled at me more genuinely than I could remember her smiling. I would never forget it, nor the words that scarred my heart as she spoke them: “It suits you, da’len. You will make a fine Keeper.”

If only I knew how to save her.

The whole clan amassed in the center camp to watch and begin the waiting. I would not tattoo Pol where everyone could see, but this was still a time of great importance. Some amount of celebration and leisure was to be expected, and by the jovial greetings shouted as I walked to stand at the fire, most people thought it was a good thing.

There were so many people here—and yet hardly any. I knew every face and every name, and while the center camp was full to bursting with the sheer number of bodies cramming themselves in to partake in the celebrations… this was the whole of Clan Sabrae. Not even three hundred people. Barely more than two hundred, truth be told. So damn few.

A cheer started up when Pol came in from the south, where a river flowed. His hair was still wet from washing, and his clothes stuck to his skin in a few places, but his eyes were bright and he smiled when he saw me.

“Pol,” I said, when he drew near enough that I would not have to shout, “you have spent the last days meditating on the gods and preparing yourself, mind and body, to accept vallaslin and become a full adult in the eyes of our clan.”

“I have, Keeper,” he replied, because it was custom, even if I was not yet Keeper. No one protested the phrase. Perhaps it had been discussed while I was in Kirkwall.

“And are you prepared?”

“I am, Keeper.”

I held out one hand. “Then come with me, Pol. It is time for you to receive your vallaslin.”

Pol took my hand, and I led him to the space that had been cleared specifically for this purpose. There, my tools were waiting and ready, and a blanket had been spread over the ground for Pol to lie on. We arranged ourselves in silence, and when he was settled, I asked, “Did you decide on a vallaslin, or would you prefer that I choose for you?”

In some clans, it was always the Keeper’s choice, or so Marethari had explained to me. This had been so in her birth clan. In other clans, it was always the person in question’s choice. It depended on tradition, really.

Clan Sabrae was somewhere in the middle—most often, the one receiving vallaslin had a specific god they wished to honor, and the Keeper would decide on other particulars—how complex to make the vallaslin, or if it was not at all a good fit, or what color to use. Sometimes, for those particularly close to the gods, like Hahren Paivel, the Keeper made no decisions, and merely applied the vallaslin that had been chosen. Other times, the Keeper made every decision, if the clan member had not come to any definite conclusions.

“I thought a lot on it,” Pol said. We were no longer standing on ceremony, so his words were more casual; he could speak freely here. “I thought about Andruil, since I trained to be a hunter, but I’ve never felt any significant connection to her. I… came to the conclusion that Elgar’nan was right for me. I want to bear his vallaslin. The stark one.”

There could be no stronger statement about his dedication to the Dalish as a whole; Elgar’nan’s stark vallaslin would require hours to apply, and half his face would be completely covered. It was a daunting task for me—but I couldn’t say no. Not only because I didn’t wish to tell Pol no, when he’d certainly thought it through very carefully, but also because it seemed appropriate to me, too.

Elgar’nan was the god of vengeance and the sun, who listened only to Mythal; he was the All-Father, the eldest child of the sun. Pol was hardly an imposing person, not like Elgar’nan, but he harbored a deep, quiet hatred of shemlen who harmed elves in the name of fun. He had never told me the details of how and why he’d left Denerim to join the Dalish, but I knew enough. The god of vengeance would suit him.

(How funny that I could not escape vengeance even among those entirely unconnected to Anders, to Justice. Would I ever be free?)

“I think black would suit you best, then,” I told him, and he relaxed minutely. I always felt like Elgar’nan’s vallaslin simply looked best in black, though red had its appeal—just not when combined with Pol’s complexion.

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

I lit the first candle and began to work.

 

It took the better part of an hour simply to lay the guidelines of the vallaslin; Elgar’nan’s vallaslin had to be symmetrical—or, at least, as symmetrical as the face it was applied to would allow. It was easy to forget I was working on an actual person, so quiet and still was Pol, but I did do my best not to breathe on his face too much. Even chewing mint to sweeten my breath would not make that a comfortable experience for him.

I made no effort at speaking while I worked, except to ask Pol to move in certain ways, chasing light and comparing shadow. Pol, likewise, remained entirely silent. Even when I began the process of actually poking the ink into his skin, he was silent.

Healing magic was not allowed during the application of vallaslin. For any other tattoo, small amounts of healing magic were fine; they did not affect the outcome by much, if they even affected it at all. But vallaslin were meant to bring us closer to our gods, and any who were unwilling or unprepared to bear the pain of the process were unprepared to take to adult life, or so the traditional wisdom went. If Pol showed any significant sign of pain, I would have to stop and send him out. He would have to wait, again.

He did not make a sound.

The continuous press-press-press of entering a needle into skin tired out my hand long before we were finished. I had no stamina for such things, not yet. Still, I took only a brief break before continuing. It was important that I do this, and even if it went slowly, I was determined to follow through.

When the sun was high in the sky, I took off the bear-fur vest. When my fingers grew cold, I put it back on. When my back and neck ached from bending over to keep a close eye on my work, I stretched and kept going. The whole time, I fretted that I would fuck it up, that I’d make some mistake and mar Pol’s face forever. It was tedious; it was repetitive; it was exhausting.

 

Only after the sun had set did I finally finish. My hand shook as I pulled back. Most of Pol’s face had already scabbed, though a few parts—the more sensitive areas that has been painful to even administer myself—bled in small dots of red blood. But his vallaslin was complete; half of his face was entirely covered in black ink.

I breathed in slowly and tilted my head back to stare at the moon. My lungs hitched a few times as I convinced my body to calm. “Halam,” I said, touching my left hand to Pol’s shoulder. “You mustn’t touch it yet; it needs to heal, and I need to put the ointment on. But it is done. You did well, Pol.”

As I spread the ointment over his face, taking care around his eye and lips, I let him examine the results with a mirror. He didn’t move or speak yet—and I doubted trying to do either would be comfortable with how extensively his vallaslin covered his face—but he did let out a breath that took so much tension with it from his body. He was pleased.

Normally, the sounds of reverie and celebration would have been loud enough throughout the day to reach us, even in a secluded place as we were, but Pol’s reception was anything but ordinary from the start.

People _were_ talking, at least—and the only ones working were those who were making food, as was typical of such an event. Hahren Paivel’s voice could be heard telling a story about Fen’Harel, and why he had a name but no vallaslin. (I wondered how much of that was true.)

I led Pol back to our clan, but stopped him just at the edge, where he would be unseen initially and everything went quiet when I came into view. I looked at all their faces, both those who were excited and those who were upset, and when I knew I had everyone’s attention, I smiled and gestured Pol forward.

There was no small amount of surprise at the dramatic change in Pol’s appearance. Few enough people took Elgar’nan’s darker vallaslin that those who chose to were often lauded for it. His dedication to our clan, our people, our way of life—and, at least nominally, to our gods—was the most visible he could possibly make it. None could doubt his sincerity.

“Elgar’nan ma ghilana, Pol,” Paivel said, his voice carrying over the camp and encouraging repetitions of the phrase. Elgar’nan was Pol’s patron; it was an acknowledgement and a blessing.

Pol smiled, just a little. He couldn’t do much, I didn’t think, not without hurting himself, and he was likely nervous of somehow harming the vallaslin (a little movement would not hurt it, but his caution was not unwise). “Ma serannas, lethallan, lethallin, hahren.” He still spoke with a Fereldan accent, but the words came easily, naturally. “Elgar’nan las enaste emma Sabraelin.”

A blessing spit in the face of those who thought him unworthy of vallaslin. I beamed. Pol had come so far; he was Dalish now. _Pol uth’elvhen._

Someone pressed a cup of bramblewine into my hands. I spent the night in jubilation, songs floating around me. Sometimes I even joined in; for Pol, a few of us sang a particular song, because the opening lyrics sounded so much like what had brought him to us in the first place:

“ _I heard them calling in the distance, so I packed my things and ran…_ ”

 

Still, the weekend came and went. I left before dawn on the Monday morning, though usually I stayed through at least breakfast. Connor was waiting for me, after all, and I couldn’t bear to think what might happen if I took too long, if Cullen couldn’t protect him, or if the terrible details of his past came to light.

Thankfully, I had the presence of mind not to fly to the Gallows and transform back from bird to elf there; I had never told Meredith of those forms I had gained since arriving in Kirkwall, and with how things were going, I had no intent of doing so. It did mean I had to make a somewhat more roundabout approach—it would have been so much faster to simply fly in—but it mattered little. I all but ran up the steps, not even bothering to hide my staff, which got precisely the sort of surprised and mildly panicked reaction that I should have predicted.

“Ser Warden!” Keran exclaimed, the first to recognize me without my Warden armor. Perhaps I should have worn it—gone back to the Estate and changed first—but I was simply more concerned about Connor’s safety than my own recognizability or reputation. “We weren’t expecting you,” Keran continued, as the others slowly started lowering their swords.

“My apologies,” I said. “I told Cu—Knight-Captain Cullen that I’d be in when I’d finished business with my clan. He said Connor was here and asking for me.”

A few more Templars relaxed, and Keran put his own sword back in its sheath. “Right, he did say you’d be by—we just… We weren’t expecting you to... run in.”

I just wanted to know about Connor, dammit. “Of course. I didn’t mean to… surprise anyone.”

“No harm done this time,” he said, over the grumbling of others. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll go fetch Connor, shall I? Wait here, ser. It’ll only take a moment. He should still be at breakfast.”

Most of the Templars dissipated after that, going back to whatever duties my unusual arrival had interrupted, though I was not left alone. Only one pair stayed where I could tell they were watching me, but I didn’t doubt others were keeping their eyes out as well.

True to Keran’s words, it didn’t take long for Connor to come striding out of the doors. I saw his eyes flicker around me, darting from the Templars whose presence was obvious to places that I didn’t doubt held more casually-attentive ones. How different was Kinloch? I had never seen it in any semblance of standard operations.

“Ser Vir’era,” he said as he drew close, and he looked so much older than when I’d last seen him—but that made sense. He’d been a boy, and though he was hardly a man just yet, he was nearly twice the age he’d been.

Without thinking about if it was appropriate or not, I reached out and pulled him into a hug. “Connor, it’s so good to see you. Are you well, da’len?” I asked, pulling back but not letting go of his arms. “Why did you come to Kirkwall? Did Ferelden—not suit you?”

“No, that’s not—I’m fine, Ferelden’s fine,” he said. He was taller than me already. Only fifteen, but he was human; of course he was taller than me. “Kinloch is… fine.”

His eyes flicked back to the Templars. What would it take to convince Meredith to allow Connor to go somewhere with me? I squeezed his shoulders and glanced around, too; surely if Cullen were around… “I’m sure, I’m sure. I’d like to—ah. Hm.”

Walking leisurely from the same doors Connor had exited was Meredith Stannard herself. She came directly to us, not even pretending she had any other goal in the courtyard; I supposed I was grateful for it, but it was ultimately a power play in and of itself. “Warden Vir’era,” she said. “How kind of you to find time to visit. Knight-Captain Cullen said he personally informed you that Connor here was asking to speak with you.”

“He did,” I agreed, allowing only one hand to fall from Connor, and using the other to tug him to stand just behind me. “I would have come sooner, but my clan needed me. It was not a matter that could wait.”

“Of course. I understand.” The way she glanced at my clothes, I wondered what she thought of the Dalish as a whole. Nothing good; were I not a Grey Warden, I had few doubts she would not care that I was Dalish. She would try to put me in a Circle. “I do hope it went well.”

I plastered on a smile, even though she didn’t even pretend to attempt one herself. “Better than I had hoped for, even. Clan Sabrae is beginning to do well once again. We will not be near Kirkwall too much longer, if our plans succeed.”

It was a bit of a lie, but that didn’t matter. The core of it was true enough: by the end of 9:37 Dragon, Clan Sabrae would no longer be near Kirkwall. I held no intent of keeping near after—well. I’d leave as soon as what I needed to do here was done.

“I see,” Meredith said. “Cullen tells me you know Connor from your service during the Blight. I know it was hardly an… ideal time, but I would appreciate if you would enlighten me as to just how a Grey Warden, busy as you were, could find the time to befriend such a young mage. I understand that he was only eight at the time.”

“He was, and new to magic,” I said, choosing my words very carefully. Connor was entirely silent beside me. “Respectfully, I will not tell you everything which happened, as neither he nor I care to relive that time, but I suppose I can tell you some. As you know, Kinloch faced many troubles of its own during the Blight; due to this and other troubles in Connor’s home, Redcliffe, he had not yet gone to the Circle.

“I met him when my friends and I went to Redcliffe to enlist the aid of his father, then-Arl Eamon Guerrin. Redcliffe is now run by Arl Teagan, Connor’s uncle,” I said. “We spent a great deal of time at Redcliffe, and visited it more than once during our campaign. I have kept up correspondence with Connor, as I have with several others I met then.”

Meredith squinted a bit, lips pursed. “And precisely why would you keep correspondence with one so much younger than you?”

The million-dollar question. What she couldn't say, or at least what she wasn't saying, was: _Are you manipulating him into becoming an apostate_? It wasn't an unreasonable fear. I was Dalish and a Grey Warden; I had never been part of the Circle, and I made no secret of my distaste for it. “Knight-Commander, his father had been dreadfully ill, and when all was said and done, he was taken to Ferelden’s Circle. I was concerned for him, so I wrote to ask if he was adjusting well, and to offer my friendship. I have been torn from my own family before. I know how much it can help to have a friend, even if only through letters.”

“A noble act.” She didn’t comment further on the subject. “I do not know what your intent is now, but you of course know that no mage can leave the Gallows. You are a notable exception, because you are a Warden, but this courtesy does not extend to your… friend. Do not attempt to take him outside these walls. I will know.”

I had figured as much, but still hated that it had to be this way. It would take much more conniving to find a private place to speak within the confines of the Gallows than it would if I could bring Connor out. “Of course,” I said, knowing that any refusal would be pointless and exhausting.

She glared some more before finally stalking away. I squeezed Connor’s arm again and began to lead him—I didn’t know where, exactly, just away from the courtyard, out of plain sight. Not far enough to worry Templars, but enough that they could not stare so easily. “Come, let’s speak elsewhere.”

He followed silently until I found an empty set of chairs in a little nook that echoed too much for my liking. “There’s no point pretending they aren’t listening,” I told him as I sat. “We may as well make it easier on them and ourselves.”

(Someone in armor shuffled just out of view, causing small clanking sounds; I wondered if my words were enough to shame them. _Unlikely._ )

“It’s so different here,” Connor said. His voice was quieter, like he still wanted to pretend the Templars were not listening to our every word. But he’d asked for me too publicly and I had argued with Meredith too many times; we would not be afforded privacy. Not immediately, and not without help. “I almost wish I hadn’t come.”

“I don’t understand why you did,” I said. “If Kinloch suited you fine enough, there was no reason to leave it. Did you have no friends there? Was something wrong?”

He shrugged and glanced to the open space outside our little echo-y nook. “I wasn’t very close to any of the other mages. Just Dagna, but she’s already finished all the studying she can do without magic, so she went… I don’t know, exactly. She said she was going to travel, and hasn’t had time to write much. Last I heard, she was going to Tevinter to speak with some Enchanters there.”

Connor told me about Dagna sometimes in his letters. She was one of the few who really didn’t treat him differently. He made it no secret that he cherished her friendship. “I’m sure that will be quite the sight. Not many dwarves go to Tevinter Circles for any reason.”

He smiled a little. “Yeah. And since I knew you were in Kirkwall, even if you’re not in a Circle, well…” He shrugged. “Before he died, First Enchanter Irving said it might be a good idea if I studied far from home. He told me he suggested it to most mages at least once, but after what happened to me, I guess he thought it was especially a good idea for me.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic. “It probably is. But why Kirkwall? Even if I’m here, you know it’s not… The city has had a lot of problems in recent years, and it hasn’t left the Circle unaffected. Orlais would have been more stable. There are several very respectable mages at Montsimmard and Val Royeaux—or, if you don’t like Orlais, Ostwick has always had a reputation for calm. The Circle, at least.”

I couldn’t remember what my journal said about most of the Circles, though I knew Vivienne was at Montsimmard and that the White Spire would soon be haunted by Cole. Neither were truly ideal for someone in Connor’s situation, but his mother was Orlesian, so I thought it acceptable to recommend them. Anywhere other than Kirkwall, really, was a good idea—well, no, Dairsmund was… Dairsmund would not be a good idea.

Connor shrugged again, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Whatever his reasoning was, he couldn’t say it with Templars listening. It worried me, though I did try to remind myself that there were any number of reasons a mage like Connor might have issue with Templars hearing the details on why he chose to come to a Circle with a tumultuous reputation like the Gallows. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I said, patting his arm absently. “You’re here now. I’m sure you had your reasons.”

I’d have to find some way to get him alone and out of Templar earshot. If only there were a spell for that… Oh. Hm. Actually, magic just might be precisely the answer, if I could get the right person to help me.

_Feynriel. Creators, send him a sign._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _aneth ara_ \- greeting  
>  _da'len_ \- endearment (lit. 'little one')  
>  _halam_ \- end/finish, used here to mean, roughly, 'it's done'  
>  _elgar'nan ma ghilana_ \- elgar'nan guides you  
>  _ma serannas_ \- thank you  
>  _lethallena_ \- plural familiar address; created by me  
>  _elgar'nan las enaste emma sabraelin_ \- roughly: elgar'nan's favor be with clan sabrae; created by me  
>  _pol uth'elvhen_ \- roughly, pol is forever one of the People; created by me
> 
> it should be noted that the entire vallaslin ceremony & whatnot is not strictly canon and purely my own speculation
> 
> [the vallaslin i chose for pol](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Vallaslin?file=Elgar%27nan2.PNG) \- notably, there is no canon name used to differentiate between "simple" and "complex" versions, so i just went with whatever, bc i doubt the dalish would refer to them in such terms
> 
> [song; mountain sound by of monsters and men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9clrY3kkXY)
> 
> [reference 1](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/316662229271314433/325364237591642113/image.jpg) and [reference 2](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/316662229271314433/325364178892357633/image.jpg) for vee's keeper robes. apologies for the low quality of.... the entirety of it lmfao. i just wanted to sketch out the general idea.


	33. there's so much fighting i'm sorry this chapter is so boring

Sometime while I was busy with Pol and the clan, Isabela managed to finally get herself out of that ‘little’ problem with Castillon, thanks in no small amount to some help from Malia and Merrill. I didn’t hear much beyond that they’d killed him, but that was enough for me. The details weren’t something particularly necessary for me to know.

I didn’t dream of Feynriel, as I had half-hoped might happen immediately, but that was hardly surprising. And since I was still waiting on a letter for him about what could be done for Varania, it seemed silly to send another. If I was lucky, he’d contact me as soon as he was able after receiving my letter. He rarely projected himself into dreams, but he’d done it before, purportedly to simply practice at it.

Life went more or less back to normal, for whatever standard of normal we held. Orana and Varania spent a great deal of time together, and I came home more than once to see them having tea with Leandra. Leandra seemed delighted to host someone who had manners and enjoyed such an activity on a near-daily basis, unlike her children, Anders, and myself. (Garrett and Malia didn’t care for teatime; Anders and I were usually too busy.)

Eventually, Malia and Garrett were summoned to the Gallows, and came back with news of the mages who’d escaped. They asked for Anders and I to help, because neither sibling was fond of the idea of sending unwilling mages back to the Circle, and we agreed readily.

Apparently, there were only three who were of particular note, and I knew enough about them to know we could save only one. Still. We first went to the Alienage to speak with Nyssa, the wife of one of the escaped mages.

“I told the Templars the truth,” she said to us when we explained why we’d come. “When they asked me, Huon hadn’t come back. But…”

“But?” Garrett asked.

“He came after they left.” She wrapped her arms around herself like she was cold, her eyebrows drawing up. “He wanted me to come with him. He said… he said something about showing the power of our people. I don’t know. I told him to go away.”

“And he did?” Malia asked.

She shrugged. “He said he’d come back at night. I’m scared. He’s changed, and it’s not good.”

“We’ll protect you,” Garrett told her. “We can’t stay, but—”

“I’ll stay with her,” I interrupted. “He might not come back if he noticed you, since you’re the Champions of Kirkwall, but I’m sure he wouldn’t pay any mind to an extra cat hanging around the Alienage. I can watch Nyssa and make sure she’s safe.”

It was still fairly early in the afternoon, but none of us were certain that Huon wouldn’t change his mind and come back early to do—well, who knows what. If he was a blood mage, the way Malia reported Meredith as believing, then we could take no chances.

So, as I promised to do, I hung around Nyssa’s stall while she worked. Few people paid any mind to one of the many street cats that lurked around Kirkwall, though some noted how odd it was for one to venture into a clothing stall, rather than a food stall. Still, other than Nyssa, no one was any the wiser that the cat was me.

The day grew long and the shadows longer; by sunset, I was feeling nervous. Nervousness in a cat’s body is somehow even more unbearable than in an elf’s; the excess energy bundles up and implodes if not properly dealt with. I started to pace, taking care to keep Nyssa ever in my field of vision.

The last rays of sunlight had left by the time Huon made his entrance. Exactly where he came from, I couldn’t tell. He moved as silently as I did. One moment, the Alienage was quieting down for the night, Nyssa and myself seeming to be the only living creatures left outside, and then Huon was there.

“Nyssa,” he crooned, and my fur stood on end while he cast some kind of blood magic.

It felt like I couldn’t transform fast enough, though little happened between the time I first noticed Huon and when I stood between him as an elf once more. “You will not harm her,” I said, striking Maleficent briefly against the ground. A shield sparked up around Nyssa, and while it couldn’t stop blood magic entirely, it would at least serve to slow its effects.

“And who are you to stop me?” he demanded. “You may be an elf, you may even be Dalish, but we all know you’ve turned your back on us. You live in Hightown with the Champions like a well-kept pet. You watch as humans step on us, and what do you do? Nothing! I’ll show you what true elven power looks like!”

“Nyssa, get down!” I shouted, and she managed to run behind the vhenadahl before Huon could redouble his efforts at controlling her.

The Hawkes were yet to arrive, but I wasn’t terribly worried. I’d faced worse than Huon before, and without the ability to use Nyssa as a sacrifice, his power was limited. I struck the ground with Maleficent once more, her blade creating sparks as it scraped the cobblestone. Huon slid a large knife down his arm and summoned a large rage demon, but that was the only one to come.

With my shield reinforced for whatever magic Huon might send my way, I set glyphs to at least slow the rage demon’s advance. Huon himself seemed disinterested in moving, so a paralyzing glyph would be all but useless on him; still, I put one in front of his feet just in case. The rage demon broke through the glyph holding it, and my attention was dragged back that way.

I wished for a half-second that Neria, who’d always been particularly adept at elemental magics, was with me, but knew I’d be fine on my own. I shot a strong Winter’s Grasp at the demon, freezing the outermost layer of its molten body. With a bit of the Dalish magic Marethari had taught me, I brought the roots of the vhenadahl up to crush the rage demon, cracking one arm clean off and ensnaring the creature.

A blast of heat against my side startled me to looking at Huon again. He was snarling, looking and acting for all the world like a rabid animal. I staggered away as the flames he’d summoned threatened to lick right through my shields. He bared his teeth at me, the firelight catching in his eyes. His pupils were—there was something wrong with them, but I couldn’t hope to explain what. For all I acted as a healer, I was no doctor; I did not know the intricacies of what could go wrong in a body.

I sent another wild blast of cold to the struggling rage demon and ducked down into the darkness, just out of Huon’s line of sight. He shouted something about finding me or the typical ‘you can’t hide’ nonsense; I paid his words no heed. Instead, while he couldn’t see me, I became a mabari. More flames cropped up around the area, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the rage demon’s continuing struggle against the vhenadahl’s uncompromising roots, or if it was Huon’s work. It didn’t matter.

There was little space I could run that didn’t have fire, so I leapt over and through the flames instead. I was rewarded for the move by a look of pure, pantshitting fear before I knocked Huon to the ground. He had enough wits about him to wave his knife at me. It stuck in my side—not deep, but the pain made me yelp, and the force of it, the surprise, nearly pushed me from atop him.

Because of that, I missed his throat when I snapped at him, but my jaws did catch his shoulder, and I clamped down hard. He screamed. Blood filled my mouth. The knife was pulled from my side, and I heard the Veil tearing open just enough to let more demons through. I needed to end this.

With a growl, I let go of his shoulder and caught his neck instead. A mabari’s jaws are strong enough that, under the right circumstances, they can break bones. This was the right circumstance, and it happened as such: my teeth tore through the skin of his neck like it was wet paper and crushed the cartilage of his esophagus. He couldn’t scream any longer. A fierceness took over, and though I knew there was no way for Huon to live through what I had already done, still I clamped harder, until I felt the bones of his neck crack and break from the pressure.

Then, and only then, did I lift my head. The shades Huon had used my blood to summon weren’t attacking me; no, the Hawkes had made it back in time to distract them while I killed Huon. Without his control, they were uncoordinated, and it was a simple matter for my friends to take care of. The rage demon suffered only a few more cold spells from Anders before it, too, disintegrated.

“Maker’s breath,” Anders said, looking at me. “Remind me not to get on your bad side. Also, you might want to take a bath.”

I shook briefly to rid myself of excess blood, letting it fly around, much to the disgust of my friends. The movement stung my side, though, and I whimpered. Anders, sharp as he is, was quick to find and mend my wound. With his expertise on the case, it was at least one place where I wouldn’t scar. I had plenty of those already.

When Anders finished, I transformed back. I regretted it near instantly—the taste of blood is different on a mabari’s tongue, and significantly less offensive. I spat out what blood I could, but there was really little I could do. My mouth was full of it, and because of how I’d killed Huon, it was even between my teeth.

“I don’t suppose blood mage is very tasty,” Malia quipped. Garrett sighed at her, but held out a waterskin to me, which I took gratefully, using its contents to rinse and spit. The taste was lessened significantly, even if it wasn’t entirely erased.

After another moment of quiet, Nyssa stumbled out from behind the vhenadahl. Her eyes were huge, her face wet, and she shook like a leaf. I wished I could offer comfort, but I could feel the blood still around my mouth and on my neck. I was not a very kind sight.

She squeezed her eyes shut and bowed a little. “Thank you, ser Warden. You saved my life.”

“I only wish it hadn’t been necessary,” I told her, taking no offense when she did not meet my eyes or even look at my face. “Remember Huon the way he used to be, before the Circle, before Meredith’s obsessions drove him to such terrible extremes. That’s who he really was, not what you saw tonight.”

Cullen would disagree with me. Most Templars probably would. But that didn’t matter; I wasn’t talking to them. I was talking to a widow who had been unable to see her husband for ten years because of the Circle’s arbitrary rules, and who was nearly killed by the same husband after those same rules drove him mad.

Nyssa nodded. “Thank you,” she said again. “I-I should… I should return home now.”

“If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to find me. Dareth shiral, Nyssa. Be safe.”

 

The very next day, because fate is often cruel and leaves no time to catch a breath, Malia and Garrett took me with them to the Bone Pit. We weren’t alone—Fenris and Aveline came as well. There was trouble, as there ever seemed to be, at the mine. More of the miners had died; I hoped Cynthia’s father was safe, for her sake, but didn’t have time to send word or find out. We had to find the problem and deal with it.

Smoke rose high into the sky as we approached the Bone Pit. There was enough that we could see it long before we even drew close, and I belatedly remembered that there would be a High Dragon there. But how could I warn them?

“That’s not a good sign,” Aveline said, squinting at the mass of smoke like she might be able to see what had caused it from here. (Well, to be fair, if the dragon flew up, she might.)

“Indeed,” Fenris agreed.

Malia didn’t stop, though I’d hardly expected it. “We have to save whoever we can. If any of the miners are still alive, we _must_ help them.”

“Didn’t you say you found a dragon there once?” I asked, keeping pace.

“That was years ago,” Garrett said, but he was frowning. “And we killed all the ones we found, and instructed the miners to smash any eggs they came across. Surely it’s not—”

“Don’t jinx us,” Malia interrupted. “I don’t want to deal with a dragon again. The first time was bad enough.”

“We should prepare just in case,” I said. At least I’d thought to wear my armor today. It might not do a whole lot of good against fire, but the silverite should at least protect me from claws and teeth. I pulled Maleficent from my waist and unshrunk her; as we crossed the outermost borders of the mine, my friends did the same.

The mine was a disaster. All of the structures that had been built were at least partially crushed, and what remained standing was generally on fire, leaving everything in a haze of smoke like layers of gauze, hard to see through and harder to breathe. What little air I could take in was putrid, too—not only from the mined materials being burned, but also from the bodies strewn about like unwanted toys.

“Hello?!” Malia shouted. “Is anyone still alive? Can anyone hear me?”

No answer.

“Hello? Please, if anyone is there, let us know! It’s Malia and Garrett. We’re here to help!”

Still no answer.

“Dammit,” she muttered. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” As she kicked a warped bucket out of the way, a loud roar came from the lowest part of the mines. We all froze. She looked at me very, very slowly. Another roar. “Vir’era, I kind of hate you right now.”

“Well, we can’t let it stay,” Garrett said, adjusting his grip on his staff. He looked at the rest of us. “It looks like we’re going to kill a dragon. Again.”

I hadn’t been there last time, and the only comparable experience I had was fighting the Archdemon. At least this should be easier. Dragons didn’t attract darkspawn like Archdemons did. She might have babies, but, well. Dragonlings, for all their size, still tended to be easier than a horde of darkspawn.

I only wished we’d brought more friends.

Given that the dragon had already announced her presence quite loudly, in a way that sounded rather like a challenge, we wasted no time in heading straight for her. “Her belly and neck will be more vulnerable than her back and tail,” I said as we walked. “And if you can catch her wings, that will ground her. We need any advantage we can get.”

“If you can freeze parts of her, I’ll use force spells to break the ice,” Garrett offered.

“Good plan. And both of you should do shields, just to be safe,” Malia said. “Aveline, since Fenris can do that lyrium stuff, it’s probably best if you try to keep her attention. I’ll help with that. I have a few smoke bombs if we need to distract her.”

The smoke wouldn’t be hard for a dragon to breathe, not like it would for us, but even still, if we could use it to readjust our positions without the dragon noticing, it was worth the risk. “This won’t be easy,” I warned.

“Didn’t think it would,” Garrett said. We rounded the bend, and there she was. “Shields, now! Go!”

The dragon roared and spat a gout of flame at us; between myself and Garrett, the shields spared any fire from catching on our clothes or hair. The heat was still intense, though, and we rolled and ran out of the way. Garrett and I stuck to the edge of the pit, our backs to a wall of rock. We could see better there.

Aveline banged her shield with her sword and shouted a defiant challenge up to the dragon, who took immediate offense. Fenris and Malia were ignored in favor of snapping at the more apparent threat Aveline presented. Malia skirted around the other side of the dragon, and I lost sight of her; Fenris lit his tattoos and began to flicker in an out of the mortal plane, making it harder to keep track of his movements, too.

“She’s a fire-breather,” I told Garrett. “Ice will work best against her.” Thankfully, I was acceptably talented with ice magic. It’d be more difficult if she had an electric affinity—or even ice, since my fire magic was very basic. Plus, Maleficent was ice-oriented.

I cast the spell to ice our friends’ weapons, and saw the frost collect on Aveline’s sword. Garrett’s staff was lightning-oriented, and would do acceptable damage. Better than if it were fire, anyway, which was all we could ask for at the moment. He sent some shocks to the dragon’s head when she got too close to actually chomping Aveline.

With no signs yet of Malia, or what exactly she was attempting to do, I turned my focus to the dragon’s wings. They were held up in a magnificent threat display—and possibly to keep them out of the reach of Aveline or Fenris, who, though currently not the dragon’s primary concern, was doubtlessly not forgotten. I probably couldn’t ice over both, especially not without resorting to a spell like Blizzard, which would be a bad idea when my friends were so close to the dragon.

But I could do each separately. I pooled some mana and bided my time for a clear shot. When Aveline had the dragon standing perpendicular to me, I let loose a strong Winter’s Grasp at the closer wing. Most of it (though not quite all) became covered in ice, and the sudden weight forced it down to the ground. A well-timed force spell from Garrett followed up and shattered half the wing.

The dragon screamed horrifically and whirled to face us. Aveline shouted at her and brandished her sword, but this did not deter the High Dragon. She leaped for us, claws outstretched.

Garrett dove to one side; I became a bird and flew up in a different direction. From there, I could see Malia clinging desperately to the remains of the wing, and I saw the dragon’s tail bowl Aveline over like an afterthought. Fenris’ glowing form slipped through one of the dragon’s legs, but she did little more than kick at him.

My misdirection was enough for her to lose track of me, but Garrett wasn’t so lucky. Nor was he fast enough to avoid getting stepped on. Another shout from the High Dragon, and suddenly her children were crawling out of the various tunnels that led into the pit. Aveline was surrounded within moments. I started to panic: who could I best help? Garrett or Aveline? Garrett was in more immediate danger, but I had no idea how to get him from beneath the dragon’s foot—Aveline needed a hand with the dragonlings, but wasn’t about to be slaughtered—

“Vir’era!” Malia’s voice caught my attention, and I looked at her. She was still clinging to the dragon’s wing, but she was safe for the moment. “Go to Aveline! We’ve got my brother.”

I didn’t question her. She wouldn’t risk Garrett’s life like that. The Hawkes were a tight-knit family. I swept to Aveline as fast as I was able, transforming back even as I went in to land. We quickly put our backs to each other to avoid as much possibility of being flanked as we could. I was at something of a disadvantage in such close quarters, but there was a reason I’d spent time sparring with Cullen, and it hadn’t been solely for his benefit.

Aveline didn’t question my presence, nor did she ask how the others were doing. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—we all knew she cared deeply—but in the middle of battle, trying to have any conversation that wasn’t of utmost importance would serve only as a distraction. Our focus simply had to remain on staying alive first and foremost.

I spammed the ground with paralyzing glyphs. The fewer opponents I had to watch at a time, the easier I could thin their numbers. Two were caught as they came straight for me; a third, having come at me from the side, managed to avoid becoming entangled. My shield blunted its attack enough to keep its claws from tearing anything, but it still hit with enough force to bruise.

A Mind Blast was enough to push it off of me, and I followed up with a swift jab of Maleficent’s blade, catching the exposed neck while I had the chance. I only nicked it, just enough to cause bleeding, but that alone was a small victory, with how well-armored dragonscale tended to be.

Pulling up roots from what few plants lived in this miserable place, I tangled the feet of every little creature in the area. It wasn’t enough to stop all of them, but it slowed them. I was able to cast out bursts of ice in the interim. Bits of the dragons froze under my onslaught, and the roots that continued to ensnare them also chipped away at whatever fragile places the ice consumed. Soon, though most still stood, the dragons surrounding me were all bleeding.

They were little enough trouble that Aveline could take them on her own, now. I stayed only until I heard Malia call for me again, and then I Fadestepped to her side.

She stood over Garrett, who she’d managed to drag behind a small boulder. Fenris was facing off against the High Dragon alone. He could keep her attention well enough, but he could do little damage when forced to defend from claws and teeth alike. Malia waited only barely long enough to ascertain that I had arrived before she jumped back into the fray herself, silent but no less dangerous.

I crouched by Garrett, sending preemptive pulses of healing magic through his body, using what echoes were sent back to me to find the gravest injuries. He was lucky; though he’d been trapped under the High Dragon’s foot, her claws had not pierced his armor or skin, and she had not put her weight into it.

His ribs were fractured, but nothing was broken; there was some internal bleeding, but not from any major arteries. I was able to give him an emergency patch-job. I glanced up, checked that we were not being paid attention, and pulled out an elfroot potion. It took a bit more effort, since I had to pull his shoulders up enough that he’d be mostly upright, but the risk was worth it. I couldn’t spare the mana to heal him fully, but he did need more than the basics.

He didn’t reawaken, which was probably for the best—even with a potion down his throat and magic fixing the most immediate dangers, he would doubtlessly be in pain. I moved to the edge of the boulder, determined to offer what help I could.

Aveline was nearly finished with the dragonlings around her, though she looked a mess for it. Her shield, her sword, her—her _everything_ was covered in blood and gore. The shields I’d cast hadn’t broken, at least, so I knew the blood wasn’t hers. She’d certainly be bruised all over, though; even as I looked to gauge the assault on the High Dragon, a dragonling headbutted her in the side.

It didn’t knock her down, though, and I couldn’t fire magic at her attackers without putting her at risk—nor could I see the ground well enough to place glyphs. I turned instead to the High Dragon. With half of one wing destroyed, she had no hope of flying away, and from how one of her back legs was bleeding, I doubted she could manage a proper jump. We had her grounded, as cornered as we’d likely manage without a full army.

I caught sight of Malia briefly. She jammed an open flask against the leg wound, apparently pouring whatever contents it held directly into the dragon’s bloodstream. The dragon screamed again, her leg flailing. Malia was pushed to the side, but she kept moving. If she was hurt, it wasn’t enough to stop her.

I turned my focus to the dragon’s head and began to simply shoot as much ice as I could. Between this and Malia’s poison, the dragon thrashed aimlessly, confused enough to stop snapping at Fenris. This was all the window he needed. Within seconds, he phased through and put his blade in her heart, then twisted it.

He must have caught her lungs, too, because she made no final scream as she fell. Blood seeped out, steaming hot, and her eyes rolled in her last moments of consciousness. But she was dead soon enough, and we panted in the wake of her defeat. Aveline shuffled over, kicking dragonlings out of her way as she did. Malia flopped against the ground and starfished. Fenris watched her with a soft smile I didn’t think he realized he was making.

Eventually, I set about making sure everyone was whole enough at least to make it to Anders’ clinic. He’d have to do the rest.

 

That evening, we congregated at the Hanged Man. Even Donnic and Varania came along, at the Hawkes’ insistence. They insisted on reenacting the fight with the High Dragon—or, well, Malia insisted, and Varric encouraged her, meaning that there was simply no way we were going to avoid it.

She had Peaches get up on the table to be the High Dragon stand-in, waving grandiosely with her fork as she directed a stage play. Garrett was knocked out far more dramatically here, gripping his heart and swooning sideways onto Anders when Peaches pawed at him.

Aveline, Fenris, and I were not exempt from the performance, of course; Aveline was made to clang her knife against her goblet and shout taunts at Peaches while was told to swoop in and ‘save’ Garrett.

“And then I poured some of that deathroot extract in a gash on her leg,” Malia narrated, trickling a bit of the ale in her goblet onto Peaches’ leg. Aveline kept waving a chicken leg, so Peaches didn’t do more than glance at her strange master. “And then Fenris came in and—yes, do your thing, please.”

She waved her fork at him. He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile on his face, so not a single person really believed he was upset about Malia’s prodding. Then, schooling his expression, he leaned forward and grabbed Peaches around the middle. Peaches started to wriggle until Malia shouted, triumphantly, “And the dragon died! It was glorious!”

Peaches let out a melodramatic howl and rolled her head around, then went limp in Fenris’ arms. Varric, at the head of the table, laughed so hard that he had to put down his ale; everyone else joined in, though none were quite so delighted as he. Malia grinned so wide I thought she might tear a muscle, and Peaches, excited by the reception her acting had received, wiggled and started to give slobbery dog kisses to anyone her tongue could reach. Fenris got the most, but he didn’t seem to mind terribly.

I returned to my seat as Varric began the endless questioning that always happened when he wasn’t around for one of the Hawkes’ adventures. They never minded too terribly—actually, Malia seemed to love it, even if Garrett sometimes argued that she was exaggerating about something or another.

“Garrett was really the only one who got hit like that?” Varric asked.

“Yep!” Malia answered, even as Garrett said, “No.”

“Yes, you were,” she insisted, pointing her knife at him.

“No, I wasn’t,” he said, not deigning to start gesturing with cutlery just yet. “Fenris got kicked, too.”

“Yeah, but you were the only one who was stepped on.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“So what? You’re also the only one who got knocked out.”

“Because I was stepped on!”

“Exactly!”

“Which wasn’t what Varric was asking!”

“How do you know?”

Sebastian, who was sitting beside me, leaned in. “Do you think they’ve forgotten Varric’s right there?” he asked. “They could just ask him.”

I laughed quietly, not wanting to draw attention. “I don’t think they care. And he doesn’t, either, or he’d interrupt. He likes it when they bicker. I think it gives him ideas for his stories.”

“Oh, I’d believe that,” Sebastian said, snorting a bit. We listened to the two continuing with their back-and-forth for another moment; no one in the room seemed particularly invested in breaking it up. (Usually, it ended up being Aveline who stopped their jabs, and even then, she often waited until they left ‘lighthearted banter’ for more upsetting territory.) Sebastian turned to me a bit more, tilting his head some. “Say, do you think you might be able to shapeshift into a dragon?”

I blinked. I hadn’t thought much about that, and certainly had never tried. “It’s—well, it’s theoretically possible,” I admitted. Flemeth could do that. But Flemeth was also Mythal, somehow, so I had no idea how much of that shapeshifting ability was due to the goddess and how much was attainable for the average mage. “But I’d need to observe dragons far more than what I’ve done so far, and that’s not really something I’m eager to try.”

He nodded. “Aye, I suppose that makes sense.” The dim light of the tavern made his skin look like it was made of actual bronze, and he was one of the most gorgeous people I’d had the privilege of meeting in my life. And he was so kind, so well-meaning. I felt honored to know that he had sought my advice, actively or not, on whether he should pursue a life in the Chantry or one as a Prince. I was even fairly certain that he took my words to heart.

Once, that would have made my own heart flutter, would have made my face flush. But recently… Well, it’s not that it never happened now. He was a very attractive man, after all, both in appearance and in personality. But it was less and less frequent, and I thanked the Creators for that, really.

Even if Sebastian were interested in men (which I doubted), there was no doubt in my mind that a relationship with him would never have been easy. I was Dalish, after all, and he was Andrastian—more than that, we were both heavily involved with our respective faiths, and though such things were not impossible to reconcile for romantic relationships, it was exceptionally rare.

Besides, he would be needed in Starkhaven someday soon, if he followed my advice. I’d already done the short-term relationship thing once, and though there was not a single fiber of my being that could ever regret my time with Nathaniel, I did not want to do such a thing again. I did not want a relationship that I knew would be doomed from the start.

(Oh, I did want a relationship, wanted one with a quiet desperation that deepened whenever I saw how happy it made my friends, to be in love with someone who loved them back. The way Aveline smiled at Donnic; the way Merrill leaned against Isabela; the way Anders and Garrett could so casually touch each other; the newer way that Malia’s repaired relationship with Fenris let her hold his hand. I wanted that, all of that. But I would rather wait to find someone permanent than steal time with someone temporary.)

Varric clapped a hand against my shoulder, and I looked over at him. He gave me one of his sly little smiles. “Hey, it’s been a while since you last sang for us, Mittens. Why don’t you sing a song or two, huh?”

“Oh, yes!” Merrill said, looking up. “Please! Could you sing—oh, what was it called? The one with the waves and destiny. I think it’s a metaphor for Fen’Harel? I never did get a clear answer about that.”

I knew the song she was talking about. “Of course, I can do that,” I said, and waited a beat for things to quiet down some. “ _You are the ocean’s grey waves, destined to seek life beyond the shore, just out of reach_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [lost in thoughts, all alone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENwFAmeWEYk)
> 
> quick mention: i'm about to finally start working again, with a full-time position, and i'm also looking to find a job overseas as an english teacher (hoping for japan! may go to china though!), so i'm gonna get really busy soon. since i'm already down to biweekly updates, it shouldn't affect too terribly much, but if the writing quality is lower.... well, i wanted to warn everyone haha.
> 
> additional note: i'm not 100% sure how long this fic is going to be. i don't have any backlogged chapters for it due to hectic life stuff, and it keeps on being longer than i expect somehow. i'm going to guesstimate that it'll finish up right around 40 chapters, give or take, plus an epilogue. then there will be another planned installment before i move on to the inquisition portion of vir'era's story, though for the time being, i'm not going to announce the title of either just yet. feel free to send me any ideas or suspicions you have about what's to come! i already have most major events and a lot of minor ones planned, but i enjoy seeing if what little foreshadowing i've done has taken root. :)


	34. heroes and dreamers

The next time I returned to the clan, everyone was in a tizzy by the time I arrived. Fenarel was the one waiting for me by Littlefoot’s tree, rather than Pol or Mheganni, which surprised me to no end.

“Vir’era!” he exclaimed, as soon as I’d transformed back. “It’s wonderful! And worrisome—and—oh, come!” He kept tripping over his words, but his face was nearly glowing. I hadn’t seen him quite so happy in a while, and I followed him to the main camp.

Almost everyone was there, crowded around the entrance. I couldn’t see what they were looking at for how densely crowded they were. Fenarel tugged me through, though, and no one seemed terribly angry about letting me in. I got a funny sense about it—no, not just a sense about the situation, but an actual sensation was going on—it felt like—

“Theron!” I cried, as soon as his orange hair was within view. His head whipped around to me, and he grinned more brightly than I’d ever seen him do during the Blight.

“Vir’era!” He wiggled towards me and wrapped me in a tight hug, going so far as to lift me right off the ground. “Oh, lethallin! It’s good to see you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you to expect me—my letters have been getting intercepted, so we had to stop all communications for a time—oh, but it’s so good to see you!”

He pulled back and examined me from head to toe—I did the same with him. He looked good; older, as was to be expected, since I had not seen him in about six years, but the time had done him well. He was as fit as ever, but had apparently decided to grow his hair out, as it was at least twice the length I remembered.

Behind him, Zevran peered at me, grinning all the while. “If it isn’t the Warden-turned-First! It has been too long, my friend.”

“Too long, indeed,” I agreed, reaching around to pull him into a quick hug, too. “What brings you here? I thought you would be in Antiva for a while yet.”

Zevran winced. Theron laughed. “My husband here was too impatient,” Theron said. “We had a chance to kill one of the Crows’ Guildmasters before we intended to do so, and he could not resist. We are now running from—what is this one’s name? Nuncio?”

“Yes, Nuncio,” Zevran said. “He has been quite insistent on catching me, even though we have as yet killed all his men. It would be comical, if we were not on the run for our lives.”

“We will not stay with the camp. We don’t wish to endanger you; Nuncio is ruthless, and I do not doubt he might kill everyone here if he thought you were hiding us. But I could not come so close without saying hello,” Theron explained. “Zevran and I will make camp in one of the nearby caves. If anyone comes to find us here, please, you need not cover for us. We can hold our own.”

“There is a cave to the north of the camp,” I said. “There was a varterral there three years ago; it may have reformed since we killed it—I can explain all of that some other time. It should allow you and Zevran to stay peacefully, now.”

Theron grinned. “A sound plan. I think we shall. Ma serannas, lethallin. But first, I would like to spend time here, among the clan. My people.”

None present argued with that. In fact, everyone was delighted to see him, even if he had not been the most beloved in the clan prior to his departure. He was still of Clan Sabrae; they still loved him dearly. It would do everyone good to spend time with him. He was quickly pulled to sit by the main fire; a cup of bramblewine and a bowl of bear stew got pressed into his hands, and into Zevran’s, too, after a half-second’s consideration.

Zevran sat to one side of Theron, and Mheganni took the other, though not a soul seemed inclined to ask her otherwise. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes red, and though none brought attention to this, it could not have escaped the notice of anyone who saw her. I settled beside her, and soon nearly the whole clan had abandoned whatever duties they were meant to be doing in favor of sitting around us.

“Vir’era has told us much about the Blight,” Junar said, “but even he does not know a great deal about the other countries. Tell us about Antiva!”

Theron was happy to do so, with no small amount of help from Zevran.

 

It took until late Sunday for the Hawkes to come wandering in, looking for a person they called a murderer. I was busy taking care of some darkspawn at the time, because one of the cave systems near the camp had begun leaking the creatures. We lost no hunters to them, thank the Creators, but it was a near thing.

Theron came with me, having also sensed the presence of too many darkspawn too close for comfort. It was unavoidably strange to be fighting at his side again, even for a brief period of time. His fighting style had changed so much—before, he planted his feet in one place and overwhelmed the enemy with arrows. There had been no need for him to move.

Now, he ran every which way, jumping from shadow to shadow, impossible to keep track of. An arrow would fell a darkspawn from the west, but by the time they retaliated, Theron would already be gone, in some other shadow, once again firing into their midst.

It was easier for me, that way; though he could be anywhere in the room, he was never in the thick of it, never in the center of the fighting, so as long as I aimed all my spells there, he’d be safe from them. Between the two of us, we sowed enough confusion to decimate the darkspawn without any aid. These weren’t darkspawn on a warpath like from the Blight, nor were they the enlightened darkspawn of the Architect. Defeating them was almost a joke.

When we returned to camp, Mheganni tugged us right back out immediately. “Your shem friends were here, Vir’era,” she said, as though she was not at all familiar with them. “They were asking about Zevran. Variel sent them to the cave, but I don’t know what they intend. We should make haste if we want to ensure they do not hurt him.”

Theron didn’t ask any questions. Neither did I, actually; we fell into step with ease, setting a brisk pace. “This is not the first time Nuncio has sent others to do his bidding,” Theron told us, offhandedly. “I do hope it is the first time we do not kill them.”

“Me too,” I said.

Mheganni shrugged. “It would be more trouble than it’s worth.” I raised a brow in her direction, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Do you think you’ll finally be able to stop running when Nuncio is dead?” I asked Theron, instead.

“No,” he said, “but we can rest for a time. I think now it is a point of pride for the Crows; they will not stop until Zevran is dead or beyond their reach—and they like to believe nothing is beyond their reach.”

I wished I could help somehow. But what could I do? They might be safer among the Wardens, but that was not the life Theron wanted. They might be safer if they did not stop running and went entirely into hiding, but I did not think they were willing to do such a thing. No, for whatever reason, they were too noble-hearted and devoted to let themselves disappear entirely.

They wanted their friends to find them forever and always; thus, their enemies would, too.

We found the Hawkes just as they slayed the varterral—Isabela and Merrill were with them. I wondered if Merrill had walked through the camp. She hadn’t been back since three years ago—again with the varterral, what an odd thing to contemplate. (But Merrill herself was much like a varterral, wasn’t she?)

“I hope you aren’t planning to kill my husband,” Theron said, approaching from behind even as Zevran approached from in front. The Hawkes blinked back and forth, silent until Merrill caught sight of Theron.

“Theron!” she cried, running to envelop him in a hug that he returned wholeheartedly. “Oh, lethallin, I’m so happy to see—wait just a moment, did you say husband?”

“Yes, we’re here for a murderer, not your husband,” Garrett said. He paused for a half-second. “We were told there was a murderer hiding here.”

“That would be me.” Zevran waved a hand with a smirk, not letting Theron explain first. Garrett frowned, and Zevran continued, “Both, that is. Your murderer and his husband. Zevran Arainai, at your service. Metaphorically.”

Isabela laughed and reached one arm out to wrap around Zevran’s shoulders. “Zevran! Oh, if I’d known it was you, I’d… Well, no I’m already here. Hey, Hawke and Hawke-two, we’re not killing him, right? Please tell me we’re not killing him.”

“You can try, but I won’t let you succeed,” Theron said.

Malia waved a dagger around, cutting off further discussion. “Um, okay, ix-nay on the illing-kay for now, maybe, we’ll see, but before we go any further… who is it we’re not killing?” She waved her dagger again, jabbing once in Zevran’s direction as he started to speak, though not close enough to garner more than pursed lips. “No, back up, we got your name. _You_.” She pointed it at Theron. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Theron Mahariel,” he said, and did not elaborate. I supposed he didn’t really count as a Grey Warden anymore, much like Anders didn’t, and it wouldn’t be like him to announce himself as the Hero of Ferelden.

Garrett went a bit slack-jawed. Isabela grinned. Malia… just waved her dagger some more. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

Garrett batted at her. “You don’t remember the name _Theron Mahariel_? Really?” She scrunched her nose and shrugged her shoulders, pulling a loud groan from her brother in the process. “Don’t you pay attention to anything? At least to Vir’era’s stories! Or Bodhan’s! Theron Mahariel is the Hero of Ferelden!”

“Ooooh.”

He shook his head. “Maker have mercy on you, Malia Leandra Hawke.”

Zevran and I both laughed, and for a moment everyone simply contemplated this fact, that here stood the Hero of Ferelden, hiding out in a cave on Sundermount, married to an accused murderer. What a strange set of circumstances. (I’d call Zevran innocent, but it was true that he was a murderer; we all were in some way.)

“Well, then,” Malia said, cocking a hip to the side and resting one hand upon it. “No, we won’t kill you. I don’t really fancy the idea of getting on the Hero of Ferelden’s bad side.”

“A smart decision,” Zevran praised. He breezed over to Theron’s side, wrapping an arm around Theron’s waist and picking up a hand to kiss. “My husband is very attached to me, as I am sure you can understand. I am so very handsome, after all, and a wonder in bed. It just so happens the same is true of him. I could not bear to live without him.”

Theron kissed Zevran’s hand in return; the two were far more affectionate now than I remembered. It was sweet, though, and I could not be upset. Looking back to the Hawkes, Theron said, “You will want to kill Nuncio. He does not forgive double-crossing easily.”

“Mm, yes.” Zevran nodded along. “Were you someone else, I might suggest hiding. But you look like you can handle yourselves, and I know dear Vee can. Perhaps you will have better luck.”

“We’ll help, of course,” Theron continued.

“We will?” Zevran got a raised eyebrow for his troubles, at which he chuckled, then shrugged. “Oh, alright, you have convinced me, mi amor. We will.”

“Um, thanks?” said Garrett. After another moment, he raised his hand. “Uh, when, though? Because it’s a bit late to go searching for him today. And we walked all the way from Kirkwall, so between that and fighting a varterral, we’re a bit tired.”

“Yes, of course! We understand, don’t worry your pretty head,” Zevran assured him. “And we completely agree. The Wounded Coast is harsh enough in the day; attempting to traverse it at night? That is a terrifying thought. We will wait until tomorrow morning, yes?”

“Yes. Thank the Maker.”

“Oh, I thought we went over this already: you can call me Zevran.”

 

The Hawkes and company spent the night in the cave with Zevran and Theron. Mheganni and I stayed there late with them, chatting and sharing stories. The Hawkes, though they’d heard much of my experiences during the Blight, were nevertheless interested in hearing Zevran and Theron’s thoughts of that time, and Theron had a great interest of his own in hearing what Merrill had been up to the last six years.

We left in the morning to track Nuncio down. Even Mheganni joined the effort, though perhaps it was not as surprising as I initially found it. Theron was her soul-brother; it was only right that she would want to help him however she could.

Thanks to Garrett’s generally-agreeable demeanor, we knew exactly where to find Nuncio. He’d given the location of his camp quite freely when they’d spoken in Kirkwall, according to Garrett. It always felt like a blessing when we didn’t need to hunt across half the Free Marches for on baddie or another.

We didn’t bother trying to make it seem like anything but an ambush. Neither Malia nor Garrett felt the need to ask for an explanation, not when the Hero of Ferelden himself was present and vouching for the purported murderer. Who, yes, was a murderer, but at least he didn’t kill for the pleasure of it. Like the rest of us, he killed out of necessity.

It wasn’t necessarily a good reason to kill, if there is such a thing, but it was a better one. An acceptable one.

The confrontation with Nuncio and his Crows turned into a massacre. It was so easy that I doubted the men with him were even truly Crows—unless the notorious assassins were too specialized in surprise attacks to succeed in outright battles, which was unlikely, given that Zevran, who had been trained only by them, had plenty of talent for both.

I used the pants of one of the dead men to wipe my staff’s blade clean when we finished, then knelt to rummage in his pockets on the off chance that he was carrying anything of worth. (He wasn’t.)

Theron began to laugh. Not in a maniacal or even slightly diabolical way. No, this sound was a good one, a relieved one, it was a rainbow following a storm. Zevran started laughing, too, and Theron grabbed him, pulling him close. They spun a little with the momentum, but didn’t chase the idea, and they were too close in build for either to easily lift the other—at least, not from that angle.

“Nice!” Malia shouted, tossing one blade high into the air. She caught its handle when it came down and pushed it into its sheath in a fluid, showy motion. Garrett shook his head a little, but he was smiling even as he slung his staff back over his shoulders.

“Is anyone hurt? Anyone need healing?” I asked. There was a moment of stillness while I waited for answers. When none came, I shrugged and shrunk Maleficent to tuck her into my belt. “Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

Mheganni nudged one of the dead not-Crows over with the toe of her boot, and I caught her frowning. She jerked her head at them. “Aren’t they meant to be skilled? I have had a harder time hunting elk.”

I shrugged. Theron, only pulling enough away from Zevran for his full face to be visible, said, “We suspected Nuncio did not have a full complement of Crows, but we were not sure, and without backup, we did not want to bet our lives on it.”

“Not a bad decision,” Malia said.

Isabela waved us over to the campsite proper, where we found a few chests that held items it would seem Nuncio had been saving for whatever reason. Nothing was of great note to me, though Zevran and Isabela briefly bickered over one of the daggers. We didn’t bother much about dividing the spoils with any great accuracy; it was no issue, as we were all satisfied in the end.

“Thank you for your help, Champions and friends,” Zevran said when we were done, giving a little half-bow to us. “I cannot tell you just how glad I am to be rid of this nuisance.”

“Will you be safe now?” Garrett asked. “It sounded like the Crows have been after you for a long time. I get the feeling they don’t give up easily.”

Zevran and Theron shared a look, then both shrugged. “It is possible the Crows will continue to hunt me down. My list of crimes against them could surely fill a book by now! But Nuncio, while not a Grandmaster, was one of the highest-level Crows they have left, and it will take them some time to be certain of his death. If nothing else, we have bought time enough that my dear husband and I can try the whole laying-low thing again.”

“They don’t often venture far into Orlais,” Theron told us. “Not if they are not on a specific contract. Something about bards and interfering, though I couldn’t tell you who interferes with who, or why. And I have always wanted to visit the Dales. Perhaps now is my chance.”

“I hear it is quite beautiful there,” Zevran said.

“Be careful if you go,” I asked, reaching out to touch Theron’s arm as I spoke. When he turned his eyes to mine, it was with the same look he’d had whenever I mentioned things during the Blight. I knew he would listen “There are issues there which are as close to exploding as things in Kirkwall. I—I have heard rumors which would suggest there is a civil war brewing.”

I didn’t look at the Hawkes, but I could hear them mutter to each other and shift around at my words. Theron’s brows furrowed, and he peered at me closely. I nodded. He covered the hand I had on his arm and squeezed it. “Dirthavara, lethallin.”

“Leliana is in Orlais now, is she not?” Zevran asked, humming a little. “Perhaps we should visit her. We can stop by Vigil’s Keep, too; I am certain the Warden-Commander would be happy to see us.”

“It has been a long time since we saw any of them,” Theron agreed. He pulled away from me, linking his hand with Zevran’s instead, and I watched their fingers tangle with warmth in my chest. I had succeeded, with them. I had one good thing to hold to at night. Maybe, if I was lucky, that would be enough.

Maybe, if I was lucky, I could do more.

 

Zevran and Theron stayed just one more night with the clan, and then they left. They refused to tell me where they planned to go first, on the basis that they themselves were uncertain, but they promised to write, and I accepted that such was the most I would get from them. I waved goodbye to them in the early morning. Dew still clung to the grass and the trees; the orange sunrise lit the distant Waking Sea aflame.

(How I hated the color orange.)

I returned to Kirkwall a day late for my lingering. No one said anything of it. They knew my duties to the clan should logically have kept me there for more than two or three days in a week. As First, I was meant to know everything the Keeper knew, or to be learning it, at least. My dearth of such knowledge, while not entirely due to the amount of time I spent in Kirkwall, became more noticeable as time continued on. 

Marethari and I often spent the day going over potions she’d long since memorized. I wrote them down with careful strokes, not trusting my memory and unwilling to tempt fate. My journal told me Marethari’s days were numbered, and though I would do whatever I could to ensure she lived through the trials to come, I refused to take the chance that her knowledge would be lost.

And I did need her to live, I told myself. I could not lead a clan, could not command the respect she held. Hahren Linara would never accept me as Keeper. Mheganni would, Pol would, but they were my friends; their support was expected. To be an effective Keeper, I’d need others to approve, or to at least listen. People who I was not as close with. Like Fenarel, who I could not figure out, or Hahren Paivel.

I asked Merrill for things she had learned, too, many times. She told the same stories as Marethari, but the insight she gave after the fact was different. Her approach to spells, too, was different—even when she didn’t use blood magic. (I never told anyone but Mheganni that Merrill gave me supplemental lessons. My words were never enough to clear Merrill of any blame in most of Clan Sabrae’s eyes, not when compared to the Keeper who had been with them for decades. I could not bring myself to blame them, even as I wished it were otherwise.)

My first night back in Kirkwall, I dreamed. To be more accurate, I was visited in my dreams by Feynriel. Some god somewhere had heard my plea. I knew it to be a dream when the darkspawn morphed into indistinct people milling around rather than causing havoc.

When they disappeared, I was grateful, but wary. It had happened, on a rare occasion, that a demon would visit my dreams, dispelling the darkspawn and demanding deals. But I saw Feynriel’s face, and I began to relax. Not fully, just in case. The Fade is a tricky place, after all, and its denizens only moreso.

“Vir’era!” Feynriel called, waving me over to sit with him. The backdrop of my dream changed with the movement of his hand, though it maintained the dreamy quality of hypersaturated colors and details that only showed themselves if you looked. Feynriel was lounging on a well-cushioned and brightly-colored seat at a low table, partially separated from the main room by several overlapping, gauzy curtains that were no less bright than the cushions. The image made me think of bangles and beautiful patterns stained into skin.

“Feynriel.” I sat on the other side of the table. To my left was an open window, though it was far too bright to look outside; heat wafted into our little nest and settled as lazy as a cat upon our skin. “It’s been so long since we talked.”

He’d tried to speak with me through dreams twice. The first time was a disaster, and I had almost written it off as a strangely vivid nightmare until he wrote me with profuse apologies. The second time, we hadn’t managed to speak for long, and he certainly hadn’t been able to manipulate our surroundings to this extent.

“We’ve both been busy,” he said, smiling at me. “But I found what you were asking me for. And I heard Danarius was killed—the Magisters are fighting alternately over his possessions and whether he deserved it. My teacher thinks he did, for what he did to Fenris, but only because my teacher thinks doing something like that is unnatural and could only have led to something tragic like this.”

I was unsurprised he’d heard already. It had been some time since Danarius’ death, after all, and news does spread faster than people. “He certainly deserved death. Worse, maybe, but there’s only so much we could do, and I was not going to try to stop Fenris from killing the person who had hurt him.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Feynriel said. He gave me a strange smile that only pulled up one side of his mouth, like he had forgotten how to smile fully and sincerely at something. I did not blame him. “It’s not why I’ve come to you, anyhow. I wanted to get you this news as soon as I could, and we both know letters are not swift.”

He glanced out the window, and I wondered if it looked different for him. The light bleached all color from his face when he faced it, turning him to an ethereal, glowing creature. “My Magister won’t take another apprentice who can’t join the Magisterium, but I did some looking. You asked me to see about Magister Pavus, but he refused, too.

“He did point me to Magister Alexius, though. I don’t have a great deal of information for you, but I know Pavus’ son is studying under Alexius. The rumor is they’re working on developing time magic, but I don’t see how that could be true.” I didn’t tell him it was. He looked back to me and waved a hand at the table, which became laden with delicacies. “Help yourself. I can’t make it actually feed you, but the flavors should all be right. Mostly. There was a mishap last time with pears and persimmons…”

I picked up a small, spiky fruit—lychee, my mind supplied, though I could not remember where I had seen one before. I peeled it as he spoke. “Anyway. Alexius. I wrote to him, and then arranged a meeting in his dreams. It’s harder to do that with someone you’ve never seen in person. He was impressed enough that he said he’d consider taking Varania on as an additional apprentice if I could vouch for her.”

Tilting his head, Feynriel picked up a pomegranate. I bit into the white flesh of the lychee, mindful of its seed. When I finished, I said, “Would you like to test her? Or for me to?” I already had, in basic ways. Nothing particularly in-depth, and I certainly hadn’t tried to do it in secret; Varania was smart enough that she’d see through any such attempts.

“I already vouched for her,” he told me. When he smiled this time, it was closer to the smile I remembered from his days in Clan Sabrae. How funny; I hadn’t realized just how much older he looked until that very moment. He was—oh, he had to be at least eighteen now. Still so young. “Alexius agreed to train her for at least one year. If she improves enough for his tastes, he might continue.”

A thought occurred to me. “Does he know she’s an elf?”

Feynriel shrugged and spat a few pomegranate seeds into the air; they disappeared before they could hit anything. “It’s not as uncommon, anymore. I did tell him, though, just so he couldn’t try and say I fooled him later. What I didn’t say is that she used to be a slave, or that her brother is Fenris. He doesn’t need to know that.”

I snorted. It wouldn’t be a good thing for her resume; that was for damn sure. “No, probably not. Thank you, Feynriel. You’ve done so much for me.”

“You’ve done just as much for me,” he argued. “Don’t pretend you haven’t. You saved my life twice. Doing something like this is—it’s not—I don’t think of it like a debt, not really, though that’s how they do it here, in Tevinter, but—it’s only right, you know? It’s something I can do to help you. So I am. Even if it’s not really for you, specifically, it’s for you because you asked, and that’s enough. But don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re not asking for yourself. Someday I’ll pay you back properly. Not because I have to. Because I want to.”

I couldn’t think of an appropriate response. I wanted to say ‘you don’t have to,’ but he’d already clarified that he knew he didn’t, and redundancy wasn’t often something I cared for in conversation. Instead, I coughed and turned my head to consider the gauzy curtains. “I do have another favor to ask,” I said.

“Name it. If I can do it for you, I will.” He was so earnest that I had to look him in the eye. He leaned forward, like getting closer might ensure I did not change my mind. I did not tell him that I could not.

“Do you remember… When you were with the clan, I told you about Connor sometimes. My friend from Redcliffe, in Ferelden’s Circle. Do you remember him?” Feynriel nodded. I think if we were closer that he would have tried to grasp my hand. The table separated us more surely than all the miles from Kirkwall to Minrathous. “He—for some reason, he came to the Gallows. I-I don’t know why. I think he has something to tell me, something important enough that he couldn’t write it in a letter, but Knight-Commander Meredith refuses to let any mages leave without explicit permission.”

(Some left anyway. I didn’t say that. Officially, I didn’t know.)

“You want me to bring you to meet him in his dreams,” Feynriel concluded.

I nodded and said, “Marethari taught me about the spell she used that let me help you. I told you once that, during the Blight, First Enchanter Irving did something similar for my friends and I to save Connor. I’ve been—researching them. It’s a personal project.”

“For Anders?” he asked. He didn’t sound anything other than curious.

Damn him. Too smart for his own good. “Yes,” I admitted. “And for Justice. Meredith would not approve if she heard even a whisper of it, and I know Marethari’s spell would not work for Anders. But I’ve been studying, and maybe…” I shrugged and scuffed a foot along the ground. “I think I can stitch the two together to make something that will work. I-I have to try, at least.”

Feynriel hummed and settled back against the pillows of his seat. Without the sun streaming upon his skin so directly, I could see that his fair tones had darkened by a few shades since he left for Tevinter, though his hair was as light as ever.

“I can’t do it tonight,” he said. “And connecting two people is hard, especially if they’re not in the same room, but—I can do it. I’ll need a few days. I need—there’s a herb that helps with this sort of magic, and I might need lyrium—but I can do it. We’ll do it on—hm. It may take extra time to get lyrium. In one week, then. I’ll find you first. If you can somehow manage to be near him when he’s sleeping, or get him near you, that’ll make it easier. Make sure you’re very tired that night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ft feynriel 4 my good friend sarah (jk he'd be here anyway but she loves him)


	35. ghilan'nain'enaste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been waiting for this chapter for so long but i'm worried it falls flat i hope it doesn't disappoint too much
> 
> i mean to be fair it's.......... a bit of just. explanation. but. i tried and i just. please let me know if it works;;;
> 
> i probably should have done more foreshadowing re:this but foreshadowing is SO HARD in first person, gods help me

I didn’t wait to give the news to Varania. As soon as I awoke the next day, I sat down with her to explain what I’d been told. She waited for me to finish my story before she reacted, though some part of me had hoped she might interrupt or interject.

“You say you received this information… in a dream,” she said, blank-faced.

“Yes; Feynriel is a Somniari, and he’s been training his power these last few years. He visited my dream last night to tell me he had found a Magister who would teach you,” I answered. She continued to stare. “I know Somniari are not common, but surely you’ve heard of them? Feynriel had to travel to Tevinter to get proper training; the southern Chantry kills Somniari.”

Varania crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “I have heard of them, yes, but they are more than just ‘rare.’ They are so few that one is born in every few generations at most. I had also heard that a new Somniari had been discovered, but I find it hard to believe that you would know him.”

“I have mentioned him before,” I said. “I know I have.” I couldn’t remember exactly when, but surely I’d brought him up at least once.

“I have heard you say the name Feynriel, yes. I do not know that I can so easily accept that the Feynriel you speak of and the Somniari I heard of are one and the same.”

I huffed, but I couldn’t really blame her. She was putting a lot of faith and trust in myself as it stood. To go back to Tevinter with nothing but a word-of-mouth-through-dreams promise that a Magister would teach her? As inconvenient as it was for me, I understood why she was hesitant. (Or, perhaps, outright disbelieving.) “I am meeting Feynriel again soon. I will ask him to send a letter—or have him ask Magister Alexius to send one—explaining the details of the offer being extended to you.”

She inclined her head, smiling just enough to be seen. “That is acceptable. But if in two month’s time, no such letter has arrived, I reserve the right to claim another of the offers you made me when first I came to Kirkwall.”

Perhaps I was just always a very desperate person, or perhaps Varania really was just very good at maneuvering deals to work in her favor. It didn’t matter. “Of course. I would suggest nothing less.”

 

I had never followed Anders on his journeys through Darktown and the sewers to save scared mages from the Gallows. Not because I didn’t care, or because I didn’t want them freed—I cared very much, and saw nothing good in the way Kirkwall’s Circle was run—but because it was simply easier, for both of us, if I had plausible deniability about those rescues.

I did know about them, though. Of course I knew about them. My journal told me of them, for one, and for another—well, it’s a very rare thing for Anders to manage subtlety, however much he tries.

So I did not use the tunnels to plan with Connor, nor did I make any outright statements about my plan when I visited him one week after Feynriel spoke to me. Instead, I brewed up a draught I knew to be very calming. It wouldn’t guarantee sleep for anyone, but I didn’t know if a sleeping potion would be a good idea.

I took this draught with me to visit Connor, and I smiled as though nothing was amiss. “Connor, I’ve brought you something to help you sleep,” I said. The Templar nearest us turned his head when I handed over the vial. “I know you’ve had the occasional nightmare, and being someplace new never helps. I would have brought it sooner, but the ingredients weren’t ready.”

He peered at the draught. “Thank you, Vir’era.”

“I’d ask that you use it tonight. I’ll come by again tomorrow, and you can tell me if it worked,” I said. “It’s not a true sleeping potion. Those are a bit dangerous, and I don’t want to risk anything. But it should keep you calm enough to sleep.” The listening Templar looked away, finally.

Connor nodded. “Before he died, First Enchanter Irving helped me make this potion sometimes. It’s the one with elfroot and chamomile, right?”

“Yes. I’ve also added lavender to ease the taste. I can make a stronger one if this doesn’t work—I’ve found some valerian on Sundermount. Promise you’ll take it tonight and tell me how it worked tomorrow?”

He gave me a funny look. “Sure, I guess.” I wanted to tell him what was happening, but there was no way I could do so much as pass him a note without it being observed, and any attempts at privacy would surely result in Templars confiscating whatever I gave to Connor, plus questioning and who knows what else.

I smiled. “Thank you, Connor. I wish I could stay longer, but I promised Malia I’d join her as soon as I’d delivered this. Take care, and don’t forget to drink it before bed!”

He waved as I left the compound. I wanted to fly away, because it would be so much faster than going back to the ferry, but Meredith didn’t know I could fly, and I was not partial to enduring one of her accusations. (I never was, but who could blame me?)

 

Malia hadn’t actually requested my help with anything. Immediately after arriving back at the docks, I slipped into the nearest Darktown entrance and started searching for Anders’ entrance to the tunnels under the Gallows.

Finding it took some doing, but I had noticed Anders leaving for one of his rescues the day before, so I tracked the trail of his scent in mabari form. It was hard to keep track of with all the other, much stronger (and much worse) scents that inhabited Darktown, but I managed. When I was certain I had found the right tunnels, I became a cat instead; their sense of smell is not so good as a mabari, but they are silent, and the last thing I wanted was to be found.

Between ferrying back to Kirkwall, finding the not-so-secret route, and following its course, I spent almost the rest of the daylight hours before I finally arrived back at the Gallows. I became a mouse as soon as I heard the faintest sounds of life.

Mice in the Gallows are generally unbothered. Only the Tranquil expend any energy to be rid of those that are seen, since it’s a very rare occasion for a mouse to do more than scurry along the floor. They don’t spend time among the mages, nor do they linger in the Templars’ quarters.

I stuck to the shadows as much as was feasible, and hid behind doors or under furniture while I wandered. I had spent very, very little time so deep in the Gallows, and though I did not wish to increase my time spent there, I knew this was the best way I could do as Feynriel had asked.

Finding the apprentices’ sleeping quarters was no difficult task. The second door I wiggled under proved lucky, and I was left with only the question of which bed belonged to Connor—I would not tell him, not before sleeping, of my presence. Risking any transformations with so many mages nearby? No, thank you; this was challenging enough as it was, and I wasn’t even doing most of the work.

(How difficult was it for Feynriel to reach my dreams? He’d seemed so at ease with it, but to need a week’s preparation for tonight’s task… perhaps he had been feigning leisure.)

I found Connor sitting on his bed, writing in a well-worn book. A personal journal, it seemed. Hopefully he was smart enough not to let the Templars know he kept such a thing; Kinloch Hold might have allowed him privacy on its pages, but the Gallows would not. Not under Meredith. (Cullen would be better. Not perfect—but better.)

There was just enough room for me to squirm between the chests containing his (and his top-bunk-neighbor’s) belongings under the bed. I made myself comfortable—or, as comfortable as could be expected, all things considered—and slowly forced myself to go to sleep.

 

Exactly when Connor himself fell asleep, I don’t know. I had not even been asleep long enough for nightmares to come when Feynriel appeared to me, the Fade bending itself back into the same room as before. The colors were just as saturated, the light just as warm, and Feynriel sat again on the cushioned nook by a window I could not focus out of. I joined him among the colored pillows.

“Help yourself to the fruits on the table. The brown ones—no, the others, yes—they’re good if you open them. A Tevinter specialty, apparently.” I picked up what I knew to be a very large fig, though I could not say why I knew what it was. “Did you manage to get close to Connor before going to sleep tonight?”

I cut the fig open with a knife that had only appeared as I realized my need for it. “Yes,” I answered, “he’s just above me now.”

Feynriel nodded and stood. “I’ll just be a moment, then.” He ducked under the curtains and out of view. I returned my attention to the fig. It was very sweet.

“Vir’era?” I looked up when my name was called to see Connor standing beyond the curtains. “Am I dreaming?”

I smiled and gestured to the cushions beside me. “Yes,” I said. “But you need not be afraid.”

He walked slowly forward, but he didn’t return my smile, and his brows were drawn close enough that his forehead was wrinkled. “Are you a demon? I’m not interested in any deals. Not even… Well, not even if you look like him.”

“No, I’m real. We’re in the Fade, yes, but this isn’t the work of a demon.” I didn’t know what to make of that last part, so I didn’t address it. Did he trust me so much that my image alone was enough to make him waver? “My friend, Feynriel—I’ve told you about him—he’s a Somniari. He was kind enough to help me arrange this meeting so we could speak without Templars overhearing.”

Connor continued to give me a suspicious look, but he accepted the offered seat beside me. To his credit, he didn’t jump or scream when Feynriel reappeared, but he did squeak. Feynriel smiled. “Don’t worry, Connor. Neither of us are demons.”

“That sounds exactly like what a demon would say,” Connor argued. “How do I know for sure this is real?”

I considered the question. Connor had more reason than most to be so cautious, so I could not blame him. In fact, my own easy acceptance of Feynriel’s gifts would probably be called ‘foolhardy’ or ‘reckless’ by most Circle mages—if not ‘stupid’ outright. “That’s a hard question to answer.”

Feynriel shrugged. “Most demons I’ve met don’t spend very long pretending to be something else. They admit they’re demons if you ask and then immediately offer you some terrible deal or another. Some don’t even pretend in the first place.”

Connor’s face smoothed out just a little, just enough to notice, and he nodded. “I suppose you have a point, there.”

“You don’t have to believe us right now,” I said. “When you wake up, I can prove it to you.”

“How so?”

I coughed. “Well, right now I’m… under your bed.”

He balked at me. “You’re—what? How? Why? This has to be a dream.”

“It’s not! I promise! Well, okay, no, it is, sort of. But it—it’s also real. Feynriel asked me to sleep as close to you as I could so it would be easier for him to connect our dreams. So I snuck into the Gallows and—well, I’m a mouse right now. Under your bed.” I shrugged, having little else to say on the matter, and sliced a piece of fruit to offer him. “Fig?”

He took it, but didn’t eat it immediately. “So, in the morning—or whenever, I suppose—you want me to look for you under my bed. A mouse that is you.”

“I’ll climb onto your bed if that’s more convincing.”

He took a bite of the fig and turned his gaze to Feynriel. “I’m in Tevinter,” Feynriel said. “I can’t prove my existence as quickly as Vir’era. I could try to send you a letter, I suppose, but I don’t think the Templars would look very kindly on an apprentice receiving mail of any sort from Tevinter, so it might not be the smartest choice. You’ll just have to trust that we mean you no harm, and you can make more decisions in the morning.”

Connor bit into the fig again. We were silent while he chewed and swallowed. “Fine,” he said, at last. “You said you set this up so the Templars wouldn’t overhear us talking?”

“Yes,” I said. “I—when you came here, to Kirkwall I mean, I knew you had something to tell me. Something… big. Is it—are you…”

“It’s about your project. I’m, um, I didn’t think it was a good idea to write everything down that I learned. Not in a letter, I mean. A-and I didn’t know if sending you a book would be a good idea, because books with information on this, they’re pretty valuable.” He picked up a strawberry from the table and contemplated it. I waited for him to continue.

“The magic that Irving used with me… it required a lot of lyrium. Enough that he told me, once, that Greagoir almost didn’t let him do it. I know you said that’s not an issue, but you have to know.”

I glanced at Feynriel, who was looking more interested in the conversation than I’d thought he would. “Connor, I said it’s not an issue because I don’t intend to do that ritual as you remember it. I have… Keeper Marethari used a similar ritual to let me help Feynriel. I’m going to… combine them. I’m certain it can be done, but I need to know everything you can tell me, first.”

Connor pulled the stem from the strawberry. “Okay. I-it took a long time for them to trust me enough with the spells and everything. I’m… O-or was, I don’t know—they didn’t really think I was ready. But I… I know it now. How to do it. Most of it. I can tell you.”

I put my hand on his. “Please do. I want to save my friend.”

With wide eyes, he met my gaze. There was a small flush on his cheeks, but he nodded, shoving the strawberry into his mouth. I squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

 

Connor told me everything he knew that night. Between him and Feynriel, I was able to glean a very clear picture of both rituals. I’d already been working on various ideas to combine them, but now, knowing more about how each one worked, I could eliminate anything that didn’t involve every last bit of lyrium I could scrounge up.

(Perhaps, I thought, I should ask Cullen for some lyrium. I could call it Warden business, because it counted, in some ways—releasing Justice from the mortal world was one last task I could do on behalf of the Wardens, even if I could not return to the Order.)

When next I went to the clan, I approached Marethari. Though she’d given me the basics before, I hadn’t known what specific questions to ask. Now, though, with enough details to begin stitching the two rituals together, I knew enough that I had very specific questions. She might get suspicious, but she was a Keeper, not a Circle mage—she should be more sympathetic.

And maybe, just maybe, it could save her, too.

We sat in her aravel as she showed me the scrolls she’d studied for the ritual. “We do not have a great deal of information on it,” she said, “but there was enough here that I could reconstruct it to what you experienced.”

I pointed to some glyphs. “In this circle here, if we swapped the order like this, wouldn’t it be more powerful?”

“More power is not always better, da’len. It is also harder to control. Do not forget that you are the conduit. It will burn through you if you ask too much.” She traced an inner circle. “But you do have a point; if it is changed there as you said, and compensated here with an extra rune for finesse…”

Marethari was not a scholar by desire, nor even by trade, though there are those who would argue scholarly pursuit is a great portion of a Keeper’s duty. She had insights into magic that I did not, because she had been using it longer and had more chance to study documents I had never heard of, but her passion was always with the clan. She knew magic, though, and she knew the books and scrolls of the ancient elven magic which Clan Sabrae had collected.

So, sure, she was not a particularly innovative thinker with magic, but when I asked her about amending things, she often had good input. Just not always.

“…which makes this outermost ring redundant. It’d be easier to just take it off, wouldn’t it?” I asked.

She squinted down at the paper. “Ir abelas, da’len, but I do not know. Your logic is sound, but I fear what would happen if we have made any mistakes—the Fade is not kind to even minor errors.”

I pursed my lips, but I had no rebuttal. We continued on for the rest of the afternoon, and though she gave me many long looks as I pored over the scrolls and the papers I was taking notes on. When at last it was time for dinner, she gave my arm a lingering squeeze that I could not interpret.

At dinner, I ate with Mheganni, Junar, and Pol, as had become my custom while among the clan. Sometimes Ellana would join us, or Fenarel, or even Hahren Paivel, but it was most often the four of us. Mheganni fed her animal companions at the time, too—at least, she fed Teddy and Charybdis. Revas always flew off to feed himself, but Teddy could not with his lame leg, and Charybdis refused to hunt alone.

“Vir’era,” Junar asked around a bite of flatbread, “what all forms can you take?”

I tilted my head at him. “What do you mean?”

He waved his flatbread at Charybdis, who followed its movement. (He quickly thought better of this, apparently, as he pulled the food back.) “I mean, you’re a shapeshifter. We’ve seen some of that—I know I’ve seen you be a dog and an owl, and I’m fairly certain I’ve seen you be a cat, but can you do anything else?”

“Haven’t I done others?” I couldn’t remember. It’s not like I was intentionally keeping any of my forms secret. “I can be a halla. Surely I’ve done that here at some point! I’m almost certain I’ve played with Edelweiss as a halla.”

Junar shrugged. “If you have, I haven’t seen it.”

“Me either,” said Pol.

I turned to Mheganni, who was the most likely to have seen that, but she shrugged at me. “I didn’t know you could be a halla. I have seen you mimic the shapes of Charybdis and Teddy, but not of Edelweiss.”

It sounded wrong. Not that I didn’t believe them; they had no reason to lie to me. And perhaps they weren’t lying, but perhaps they were wrong nonetheless—even though I knew my coat to be darker than Edelweiss’, I supposed it was possible that I had transformed out of their sight, and they had merely mistook me for her. There were many shady spots around the encampment that might make it harder to tell the difference.

“So, dog, cat, owl, halla, fox, chipmunk,” Junar listed, miming counting off on his hands. “What else, then? Or can you do whatever you wish?”

I shook my head. “No, I have to study a shape first if I want to take it. There are not many forms I have yet had time and opportunity to learn. I can become a mouse, too, but that completes the set so far.”

“There aren’t usually many other kinds of animals in the city, so that makes, sense,” Pol said. “And we usually don’t bring live catches back to the clan, and I’m guessing dead ones don’t do you much good.”

“Yeah, no, they have to be living. I need to know how they move, not just how they look or taste.” Otherwise, I’d likely be able to become a bear or a nug, too. Maybe even some other creatures, like a cow or a chicken.

“Pity,” said Junar. “It’d be impressive to see a wolf, but I’m not going to bring a live one back just for that. I’m sure you can learn that one on your own, if you’re so inclined. Let me know if I should trap a nug, though. That one I could manage.”

I laughed. “While I’m not over-eager to do as much, I’ll tell you this: if you do bring me a nug, I’ll learn its form, just for you. How’s that sound, Junar? Have we got a deal?”

“It’s a terrible idea,” he said. “I love it. I will find you the fattest nug I can, and Mheganni will take care of it.”

“Don’t bring me into this. I will not be roped into caring for some creature just to please you,” protested Mheganni, but she wasn’t terribly emphatic about it.

“Sure, of course.”

Mheganni sighed. “You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“It’ll be a surprise. I won’t tell you if it’s happening. You’ll just have to live in suspense.”

“He’s definitely doing it anyway.”

While Junar pretended like he might even consider not catching a nug for me to study, Pol turned to me. “Would you mind to show us your other forms? I’ve only seen you transform a few times, and always to or from an owl.”

“I don’t see why not,” I agreed, and put aside my empty bowl. “What order shall I do, hm? When I learned them, perhaps? I think I remember the order that was. Or by size?”

“Oh, by size, definitely. Smallest first.” Junar paused and nodded pointedly, looking me briefly up and down. “You’re off to a great start.”

I flicked the tiniest bit of cold in his direction, just enough to make him jump. Pol snorted at Junar’s indignant squawk, and while they were distracted, I became a mouse. Charybdis sniffed at me. I sniffed her back.

“Hey, where’d Vir’era go?” Junar asked. I stood on my hind legs to squeak at him, but he didn’t notice.

Mheganni rolled her eyes and pointed at me. “He said he’d start with the smallest.”

“Oh!” Junar knelt in front of me. “You really are quite small like this. He makes cute little mouse, don’t you think, Pol?”

Pol crouched next to Junar. I wiggled my nose at the two of them. “Are all your shapes the same color as your hair? I mean, the dog is, and this is, and the bird—well, it’s as close as I suspect feathers can get.”

I tilted my head. This was news. Since I didn’t have much access to mirrors, or any significant reason to try learning what my animal shapes looked like, and my ability to see color changed depending on the animal, I had no significant knowledge of what most of my forms actually looked like from the outside. That said, I did know that my cat shape was a calico, so I shook my head at Pol.

He shrugged. “It’s a fair question.” I squeaked at him.

Next was chipmunk. Teddy peeked over Mheganni’s lap and sniffed in my direction; I returned the favor. “Do you think he thinks Vir’era’s a real chipmunk?” Junar asked, looking back and forth. “One that just sometimes is also an elf?”

“How do you know he’s not?” Pol sent back. “I mean, except that this is the first we’ve seen him be a chipmunk.”

“Chipmunks aren’t very smart. Vir’era at least is very good at pretending to be smart, but I rather think he’s not just pretending. Most people aren’t that good at pretending to be smart when they aren’t.”

Mheganni hummed and leaned toward me. “Vir’era?” I met her eyes; it was strange to see her from the perspective of a chipmunk. How to describe it? Not only was I lower to the ground, but my range of vision was different; a chipmunk’s eyes are not front-facing like an elf’s or a cat’s. I had to use just one eye. “Is it different? To be a chipmunk, I mean. Or any other animal. Is it different when you are them?”

I squeaked, almost forgetting I could not speak, then nodded my head. It was a quick, jerky movement—such a thing was hardly natural for chipmunks. It made Pol snort and Junar coo; Mheganni hummed again and nodded her head just once, a slow but decisive movement. “I thought it might.”

“Okay, next one,” Pol said, reaching out to poke me. I pretended to snap at his finger, which only made him laugh. Was my cat form or my owl form smaller? I didn’t know, but I thought the owl would look bigger, so I went with cat next.

“Oh, you’re such a pretty kitty,” Junar said. I was starting to think he forgot I was perfectly capable of understanding him—and from the raised eyebrow Mheganni sent his way, she thought so, too.

“Kitty?” Tamlen’s voice interrupted, and he came over to investigate. I meowed a greeting at him. “Oh! It’s a cat!”

“It’s Vir’era, actually,” Mheganni said, patting the space beside her for Tamlen to sit. He did so happily, though he didn’t stop staring at me. “Remember how he’s sometimes a bird? He can be a cat, too. And a mouse, and a chipmunk—he’s showing us all his shapes right now.”

“Can I watch?” To his credit, Tamlen did look right at me when he asked the question, instead of asking Mheganni, Pol, or Junar. I meowed and attempted a nod again, and he clapped his hands in delight. “Ma serannas!”

“This is the first one that isn’t brown,” Pol noted. “But I guess they couldn’t all be brown. I’ve never seen a brown halla.”

“Halla are white,” said Junar. “You’ve seen enough of them to know that much, haven’t you?”

“Hey, it could’ve been a coincidence.”

“Junar’s only mostly right anyhow,” Mheganni said, interrupting Junar before he could make any statements insulting Pol’s observational skills. “They can’t be brown, so he’s right about that, but there is… Hanal’ghilan is golden. But she is very rare, sent by the gods when the Dalish need her most. Most will never see a golden halla.”

Pol sighed. “We could use Han—Halal…”

“Hanal’ghilan.”

“Hanal…ghilan. Hanal’ghilan.” Mheganni nodded, and Pol continued, “We could use Hanal’ghilan right about now. Edelweiss is wonderful, but she’s only one halla.”

Mheganni shrugged. “Only Fen’Harel is left in the mortal realm. We cannot trust that he would be so kind to give us Hanal’ghilan only because he saw we needed her. He does nothing without reason or intent to gain from it. If he did send us Hanal’ghilan… I think I would be more worried than I am already.”

Pol pursed his lips and glowered a little at the ground. “You’re right.” Elgar’nan’s vallaslin sent half his face into shadow at all times, and it caused such an intense stare.

I meowed, trying to distract them from the heavy talk. “Right,” Junar said, “next form. Chop, chop, Vir’era.”

Feathers replaced fur as I slipped into owl form. My eyes were definitely up higher like this, but my sight was rather terrible. Owls aren’t blind—far from it—but a cat’s vision is sharper than whatever sort of owl Revas was, whatever sort it was that I could be. Of course, it didn’t come without its benefits; my hearing was best in this form of all shapes I had learned, and more than that, I was best able to locate where any given sound was coming from like this.

“Does it hurt?” Tamlen asked. I blinked at him. I hadn’t been asked that question before—not, I figured, because no one cared, but perhaps because he was the first to think of it. “It looks weird.”

I moved my head back and forth in an approximation of shaking it. “Does that mean no?” he asked. This time, I nodded. “Okay. Good. I seen you fly before. It’s good that it doesn’t hurt. Hurting is bad.”

With another nod, I looked around to see if anyone else had comments. When none were forthcoming, I shifted instead to fox shape. Charybdis immediately jumped on me, sniffing at my face and licking whatever parts she could get at. I felt her tail thump against my side, and Junar almost fell over from laughing.

“I guess she likes this shape, huh?” Pol asked. I yipped at him; Charybdis echoed the sound. I’d only played with her as a fox a few times, but she delighted in it each time.

“It’s pretty,” Tamlen said.

I shook Charybdis off with a gentle nip to keep her from trying to latch back on and paced out a couple steps to become a mabari. They’re rather larger, and I didn’t want to knock anyone over when I was trying to show off. It was just a precaution, but I was glad to take it if it meant everyone’s safety.

“That’s big.” Tamlen’s observations were, as could be expected of a six-year-old, very much obvious to most people. “Is he a wolf now?”

I woofed quietly, and Mheganni pretended to interpret: “No, he’s a mabari. They’re wardogs. You’ve never seen a mabari before, but Vir’era used to have one named Littlefoot. We sit by his tree sometimes, remember?”

“Oh! Littlefootadahl. I remember. It’s little. Was he little, too? ‘Cause his name was Littlefoot.”

Mheganni laughed. If I were elven, I might have, too; instead, I gave Tamlen a quick doggy-kiss. “No, da’len, he was even bigger than Vir’era is. Mabari are very big, usually. Vir’era is a small one.”

Tamlen hummed and patted my head. “Is there more shapes?”

“Just one more now, I think,” Pol said. “The last one is the halla, right?” I nodded, and he grinned. “Well, get on with it, then! Let’s see you be all big and horny.”

“I think you’re thinking of the qunari,” Mheganni drawled, but Pol waved the idea away. I sneezed at him, trying to show my agreement with Mheganni, and he waved that away, too.

Like moments ago, I walked out a couple paces. I noticed that quite a few of the clan were watching my little show, and I shook once. Ineria, who had one eye on me and the other on Tamlen, shook her head with a smile. Marethari looked on as serenely as she ever was. When I’d determined that there was enough space that I wouldn’t knock anyone or anything over, I became a halla.

For the first time, I was met with silence.

I blinked around, peering at everyone. “Ghilan’nain’enaste,” Ineria breathed, just loud enough that I could make out the words. I focused on her, but couldn’t glean anything from her slack-jawed expression.

I wanted to ask what was going on. I turned to Mheganni, but for once, she, too, was shocked silent. Junar started to laugh, and this only further confused me—at least, until Pol said, “So, I’m guessing now’s the time for me to start worrying what Fen’Harel wants with us, huh, Mheganni?”

A hand on my neck startled me before I could quite figure out what Pol meant—why was it that Mheganni was worried about Fen’Harel, again?—and I finally noticed the Keeper standing right beside me. Her eyes were uncharacteristically bright. My ability to interpret colors was nowhere near as good as a halla, but I thought I could see tears forming.

“I would like to speak with you, da’len. Would you come to my aravel?” she asked. I paused, but transformed back, and she led me to her aravel. The eyes of the clan were heavy on my shoulders.

As soon as we were inside, Marethari hugged me. I was so startled that I didn’t react until she’d already pulled away. “Vir’era,” she said, “you have eased an old woman’s heart. I have done something very foolish.”

_Oh no._

“There was a demon confined to a statue on this mountain. I have told you before that I fear Merrill would go too far in her quest.”

_Keeper, no, please, no._

“I will not be able to stay with the clan much longer. I did this knowing it would leave you to pick up the pieces, and for that, da’len… I can never repay you. Nothing I do will ever be enough to make amends for this. But I can do it peacefully, now, because of you.”

_Why? Marethari, dirthara-ma, dirth ma, why, why?_

“I cannot tell you what I have done. Not yet. You would try to fix it, as you have done for so many others, as you are doing even now.” _Oh, but Keeper, I know already, I know and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it._ “Ir abelas, lethallin. You will make a fine Keeper. You have Ghilan’nain’s blessing.”

‘Lethallin’ hurt coming from her. I shouldn’t be that yet. I should be ‘da’len.’ I was not so young, but I was young next to her; she should not speak to me as an equal, as someone who could take on her mantel. “I-I…” The words would not come. “Keeper…”

She pressed a hand to my face. “Hanal’ghilan comes when we need her most,” she said, and then—I almost choked on a gasp. “You are Hanal’ghilan. When I must leave, you can lead the clan. They will follow you.”

I was Hanal’ghilan.

The gods have a strange sense of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ghilan'nain'enaste_ \- ghilan'nain's blessing  
>  _ma serannas_ \- thanks  
>  _littlefootadahl_ \- littlefoot's tree  
>  _dirthara-ma_ \- may you learn (generally used as an insult/curse; i used it here as a desperate more of a 'dont you fucking dare' type thing)  
>  _dirth ma_ \- tell me  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i'm sorry


	36. GUESS WHO'S BACK

I wish I could say that nothing changed with this revelation. I wish I could say that, despite my apparent blessing by the Creators, the clan continued to treat me much as they had before. But I am not a good liar. The rest of that weekend was so unreal that I could not possibly recount it in any way which would make sense. Things I would never have dared even hope for came to pass—Hahren Linara _apologized_ to me, and to Pol.

Holy. I was not holy, I was not sacred, and yet—I was blessed. Ghilan’nain herself had seen fit to grant me the shape of the creature arguably most sacred to the Dalish, even if she could not answer our prayers directly. Or was it Mythal? Had Mythal given me this? Flemeth was so unknowable, so utterly beyond my comprehension… It was not impossible.

I did not dare hope it was Fen’Harel. Somehow, he was more unknowable than Mythal, though I knew, if I continued on the path I had set, that I would one day meet him. I may even befriend him—for however much such a friendship can count with a trickster. (How much of Solas was true? How much false? Would I ever know?)

Too rattled by the stares and reverent whispers that dogged my steps among the clan, I fled back to Kirkwall at my first opportunity.

“Are you alright?” Bodahn asked me as I entered the Hawke Estate.

I blinked at him, well aware that my eyes were wide and my expression bewildered, but unable to change it. With great effort, I opened my mouth and said, “Yes. No. I don’t know. Nothing is wrong.”

He squinted at me, but when I did not continue, he nodded and pulled out a very official-looking parchment with a very familiar wax seal at the bottom. “Alright, I’ll not ask you more. I was asked to give you this, ah—well, normally, I’d call it a summons, but I was explicitly told it was only an invitation. King Alistair’s come to Kirkwall, and he wants to have a chat with you, it would seem.”

“Alistair?” I repeated. Why had he not told me he—oh, no, but he had told me he was coming. Him and Capella both, actually. I’d received the letter and promptly forgotten. “Oh, Creators.”

“Forgot, huh?” Bodahn laughed and patted my arm. “Not to worry, lad. He came by himself, actually—gave me quite the surprise!—and said to tell you he’d be up at the Viscount’s Keep for the next week. Apparently they’re touring the Free Marches! He even invited me to lunch with him and the Queen. Said it was for old times’ sake. I am glad it’s him you put on the throne, and Queen Capella’s sure to keep things running smoothly.”

He was definitely right about that. The world felt to have shifted for the second time in as many days, but this one gave me more stable footing. “I should see them right away. It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. Tell the Hawkes where I am if they go looking, please?”

“Of course! Off you go, then.” He shooed me from the estate like he was herding a small child (or Sandal).

On days like this, the nearness of the Viscount’s Keep to the Hawke Estate was a boon. The presence of so many Templars there was hardly a comfort, but at least it was not long before I could see Alistair and Capella again. Like Theron and Zevran, it had been years since last I spoke to them in person.

Donnic greeted me as I walked into the Keep—he was heading in the opposite direction—and I paused to ask, “Do you know where I could find Alistair and Capella?”

He faltered and turned to face me fully. “The Fereldan King and Queen?” His words felt like a teacher’s reprisal.

“Ah, well, yes. Um, they’re my friends,” I said, hoping it would excuse my familiarity.

“Oh! Right, they are, aren’t they?” He chuckled, murmuring something to himself that I couldn’t quite catch. “They’ve been given rooms in the Viscount’s suite. I’m sure the seneschal could take you directly to them; just go to the office.”

The grin on his face was a bit suspect to me, but his advice was sound. “Thank you. Be safe on your patrol.”

“Always am. I’ll see you around.”

We parted ways with a wave, and I climbed the stairs to the second story of the Keep. Seneschal Bran—technically Provisional Viscount, though no one used the title (and he cared for it as much as he cared for the Hawkes)—was pacing outside the Viscount’s office, his hands clasped tightly together and pressed to his face. Were it not for the wide-eyed stare and furrowed brows, I might think he was merely biding time; his pacing was slow and even.

“Ah, Seneschal?” I asked, lifting a hand to get his attention as I approached. He turned on his heel to face me, his hands falling behind his back and face schooling into a more neutral (if still rather forbidding) expression.

“Warden,” he said. He glanced me up and down; I was still wearing Dalish clothing. To his credit, though, his expression didn’t change. He did seem to maintain a far more middling opinion of me than the resident Champions of Kirkwall. “Do you have business here? The Guard-Captain is on patrol now, but I’m certain one of her guards would take a message for you.”

“Oh, I’m actually, ah. I’m not here for Aveline today,” I said. I could hear a muffled conversation going on behind the closed door of the Viscount’s office, but the words were beyond me. “I’m… here to see King Alistair and Queen Capella.”

Bran pursed his lips like he was trying to avoid being fed something, but he did not turn to the office or to the door that led to the private wing. He looked at my clothing again and raised one eyebrow. “You’re here to see the King and Queen of Ferelden,” he repeated.

I gave a quick look to the office door. Someone behind it began to raise their voice. “Yes. Guardsman Donnic told me to ask you where I might find them.”

“What business do you have with them?” His brows furrowed again.

“None?” I blinked at him; he blinked at me. “Alistair wrote me that he’d be coming soon, and Bodahn just told me that he and Capella were here. I was with my clan when they arrived.”

Bran did a thing with his face which I thought looked like a silent rendition of one of the Chantry’s Benedictions. “You can’t just—why would the _King_ —you say he wrote you? A letter?”

I resisted the urge to sass. “Yes? He’s my friend. The Queen is, too. We worked together during the Blight.” The voices behind the door continued to rise in volume. I could now clearly recognize Meredith’s. “Should… should I come back later?”

He sighed with his whole body and swallowed whatever it was he’d been refusing to earlier and muttered to himself. I caught the words ‘Wardens’ and ‘Fereldans,’ but not much else. “The Knight-Commander is—”

The door banged open, and the Knight-Commander strode out. She walked past us without even a cursory acknowledgement, her face taut and feet loud upon the stone floor. Despite being taller, Cullen had to work to keep up with her pace; he, at least, nodded to me as he passed, and I waved in return.

Bran, with his eyes looking heavenward, waved a limp hand at the open door. “…I suppose it’s your turn, now.”

I dipped my head at him and entered the office. Behind the desk stood both Alistair and Capella, wearing royal clothing and all. Not, I supposed, that anything they wore wouldn’t be royal—since they were royal themselves, didn’t that make everything they wore royal by proxy? (Did they have royal pains? …royal shits?)

Instead of the full-regalia crowns, which were doubtlessly still in Denerim, each wore a circlet. The circlets were not overly ornate, but they were still stunning enough to denote without doubt that their bearers were highly important. The bearers who, as I stood and took in their presence near me, were having a quiet conversation that included, at least on Alistair’s part, gesticulating in the direction Meredith had left.

I lifted a hand to get their attention. “Hello.” (I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say.)

Both looked up at that, and a wide grin spread across Alistair’s face. Capella smiled, too, but she had never been as free with expressing emotions as Alistair. “Vir’era!” Alistair crowed, rounding the desk and pulling me in for an unexpected (but nonetheless gladly returned) hug. “Vee! It’s been too long! You’re shorter than I remember. And your hair! There’s so much more of it!”

As we parted, Capella leaned in for her own hug. “You’ve more scars now, I see,” she said, one hand brushing briefly over the scar on my jaw when she pulled back. “I do hope you’re not going out of your way to collect them.”

I gave a small smile; that scar would forever hurt, even if the physical pain was gone—it (and its brother on my abdomen) would never let me forget how I failed Littlefoot. “No. They may give a person character, but I think I have enough of that on my own.”

Capella’s smile creased her eyes. Her own scar, over her right eye, had faded in the years since the Blight, but she still made no effort to hide or disguise it. “Good. Now, let’s sit. Our tea should be in shortly. I would be delighted if you’d join us, Vir’era.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The office was not what I’d call ideal for a casual chat, but neither Capella nor Alistair seemed to mind, nor did they make an attempt to relocate. As we settled ourselves, Alistair said, “So, we’re doing this whole Free Marches tour in part because it was apparently ‘high time’ or something—Eamon really wouldn’t let the idea go—and also in part to find out how many Fereldans would be willing to come back.”

“Yes, you said as much in your letter.” I wondered how many would return. Some had nothing to return to; some had nothing to return with. My friends were lucky that they fit in the second category, not the first.

“We’re also going to be speaking with…” Alistair shifted, glancing at the closed door. “Well, we’ve arranged a meeting with the Grand Enchanter. She’s going to be in Ostwick at the same time as we are, and with the tensions around mages lately, well, it seemed prudent.”

My heart did a funny thing. I knew he’d met Fiona before, after I told him that she was his mother. She’d visited Denerim on his invitation, ostensibly to seek counsel regarding the events that had happened at Kinloch and Redcliffe. He’d told me that the meeting went well, and to know it went well enough that they’d arrange more chances to see each other? Warmth suffused my blood. “I’m sure she’ll have good advice for you.”

“Leliana actually wrote us not too long ago,” Capella said. There was a small lull while one of the Keep’s servants came in and emptied a platter onto the desk. Three teacups were set down without comment about why someone like me was taking tea with royalty. There were a few small cakes, too. “Thank you, dear.” Alistair and I thanked the servant, too, and when he left, Capella continued her earlier train of thought. “She said she had been in Kirkwall.”

“Yes.” The tea had a wonderfully strong scent, something spicy and likely Tevinter in origin. I added a liberal amount of sugar. (Alistair did, too.) “The tensions between mages and Templars are worst here, and even the Divine has heard of it. I told her to be careful, and I would offer the same advice to you.”

“Careful how?”

They knew that I knew more than I should, but they didn’t know how much I had forgotten. I didn’t feel comfortable divulging such. “I believe war is imminent. Ferelden is known to be very lenient with mages since your coronation, which may put your country in a particularly precarious place. And that’s not even considering Orlais…”

Alistair grimaced around his teacup. Capella chose a cake. “Yes. Celene may be Empress, but Orlais is not well-known for peaceful transitions of power. I am unsurprised about the rumors I’ve heard regarding the Grand Duke, but I will admit they worry me.”

“He does not look kindly on Ferelden’s freedom,” I agreed. I knew it would soon become a war, too, but I did not know when that civil war would officially break out. Before the Divine’s Conclave, but that was years away yet… “He aspires to return Orlais to its former glory, to make it great again.”

Alistair sighed, putting his cup on its saucer. “I may not have been alive when Ferelden was part of Orlais, but I don’t know that most of my citizens who were would call that time anything close to ‘great.’ Actually, I’m quite certain some of them would call it the opposite. Most consider almost anything Orlesian to be very much not great, and I usually agree.”

“The cheese is the exception, of course,” Capella added, the light catching her eyes in a way that made them seem to twinkle, belying the amusement her face did not show.

“Cheese is the one thing Orlesians get right.” Alistair peered at the cakes. There was no cheese being served with this tea, though I was uncertain how well cheese would complement tea, anyhow. “Ella, is that the one I like, or is it the one that tasted like chalk and glue?”

She pondered the cake he was pointing to. “Neither, but it does have raisins in it. Have the one with the slice of banana on it. No, the one with walnut pieces. Yes, you’ll like that one.”

“Banana nut?” he asked, forking off a bit and considering its consistency. “Well, I do like bananas. And nuts.” Capella hummed. “The foods.” She hummed again, smiling. “Capella.”

“I was agreeing with you, dear husband.” Her grin spread, though, as she looked at him.

“Uh-huh. Right.” He raised an eyebrow at her, but couldn’t seem to stop the smile that spread on his face, too. “Vee, you should have some cake, too. Whichever one you like. I promise I won’t judge you even if you pick one that’s terrible.”

“If I pick a terrible one, doesn’t that mean there’s more of the good ones for you?” I asked, raising one eyebrow at him.

“In that case, please. Pick a terrible one.”

I had no idea which ones he thought were terrible, and honestly had no idea what any of them were. I knew I wasn’t fond of raisins, though, so I avoided the one he’d initially asked Capella about. There were two others, one with a slice of banana (but no nuts) and the other with a sprig of lavender.

I took my chances on the lavender cake. (It was delicious.)

 

After tea, we wandered around the Keep. Alistair and Capella had received a cursory tour when they arrived, but it was hardly enough that they could find their way around without aid. While I wasn’t the most knowledgeable about the Keep’s nooks and crannies (any of the guard knew more than me), I was more than able to show them the things they were most interested in.

“…took weeks to remove the last of the stains, or so Aveline tells it.” I gestured at the door to the throne room. “But no one’s really allowed in anymore.” Nevermind that the Hawkes and I had met Leliana in that room; we weren’t supposed to have been there, and it would be poor form of me to advertise our transgression where guards could hear.

“After such a tragedy, it is understandable to keep the doors locked for a time,” Capella said, but her eyes were sharp on the door, like she could will it to open itself. “Once a Viscount is named, I have full faith that the throne room will again be put to use. A waste of space is a poor look for any building, regardless of what horrors it has seen.”

Had she practiced these words? Perhaps she just took lessons on becoming so eloquent when saying things which boiled down to ‘it’s dumb and I don’t like it.’ She even managed to keep it from being insulting.

Alistair, after sparing a nod and approving hum for Capella’s words, asked, “Is it true what they say? I heard your friends challenged the old Arishok to a duel, two on one, and he accepted because the Qun demanded it, since they’re not Qunari, and the winner got Kirkwall. Except that your friends didn’t want to be Viscount, so they asked to be named Champions instead.”

“Where did you get this?” I asked, squinting at him. “It’s all rot. Yes, they fought the old Arishok, and the fighting was arguably because the Qun demanded it, depending on how you interpret the Qun and the events which led up to the fighting, but the whole room was a battle, and it wasn’t over Kirkwall.”

“Ah. That would explain why the story I heard also says something about a pirate, a blood mage, and a holy book.”

“Oh, no, that’s actually… that’s partially true, anyway, depending on what you heard about the pirate, blood mage, and holy book.” I coughed. Capella raised her scarred eyebrow, but I pretended not to understand the underlying question behind the movement. “I could have them come and tell you the story, if you like? Varric’s an actual storyteller—his books are published and everything—and Malia does love to reenact her favorite fights.”

“We have some of Varric’s books in our library,” Capella said. “He has a talent for words on paper; I would be delighted to see if this holds up in person.”

“And we did intend to meet the Champions while we’re here, anyway,” Alistair added. “In fact, when we left our message for you with Bodahn, we also left one for them. He wasn’t able to tell us where they were, though.”

I shrugged with a smile. “They could be anywhere in Kirkwall, really. Malia’s probably with Fenris, taking care of whatever odd jobs people might ask of their Champions. I’m not sure where Garrett is, though.”

“Right here.”

I jumped at the words and spun around to see Garrett and Malia both approaching. As predicted, Fenris was with Malia. Aveline and Varric were present, too—but not Anders, though I hadn’t expected to see him. He was probably in the clinic. “Garrett! And Malia!”

“And Fenris, and Aveline, and Varric,” said Varric. “But it’s okay, Mittens, we know you play favorites.”

“I take it you’re the Champions of Kirkwall, then,” Alistair said, looking between Garrett and Malia.

Garrett bowed, tugging Malia with him. It wasn’t a low bow, not like what one might expect if one’s information came solely from Varric’s books, but it was enough to show their respect. The others mimicked the movement. “That we are, your Majesty. I’m Garrett Hawke, and this is my sister, Malia, and our friends, Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen, Varric Tethras, and Fenris.”

Alistair and Capella both nodded, a polite acknowledgement. I took it upon myself to give their formal introductions, knowing it was obvious. “This is King Alistair Theirin and Queen Capella Cousland of Ferelden.”

“Oh, now that rolls off the tongue nicely, doesn’t it? Queen Capella Cousland. Very commanding.” Malia grinned. Garrett rapped his armored knuckles against her thigh. Varric chuckled—and so did Capella.

“I certainly appreciate it,” she said.

“Well, I think King Alistair has a nice ring to it,” said Alistair. He was pouting, but only just enough to be noticed.

Capella, eyes twinkling, turned her smile on him. “That it does, darling husband mine. You wear it on your left hand.”

Varric snorted. Alistair guffawed. Malia giggled. Garrett had a distant look on his face, as if everything in his life up to this point were happening all at once, and he was trying to decide what went wrong. Aveline visibly repressed what could have only been a sigh. Fenris and I met gazes and snickered.

“You know,” said Alistair as he resettled his decorum, “technically, I’m the one who has the throne by birthright, and you got a bit lucky when I turned out to be a prince.” Capella smirked. “Of course, I’m luckier, to have you for a wife.” Her smirk widened.

“We are certainly blessed,” she agreed. Facing the Hawkes fully, she changed the subject. “In that and in other things, too. Ferelden has been rebuilding these last six years, and while things are still not quite as they were before the Blight, much has been accomplished. Champions, you came from southern Ferelden, did you not?”

“Lothering, to be specific,” Garrett said.

Capella nodded. “I saw Lothering exactly once during our campaign to end the Blight. We passed through not a week before the darkspawn destroyed it. A sad loss; the little town would have held memories for many, including my friends and myself. I am certain you miss it dearly.”

“We do.” Garrett looked away, and Malia reached out for Fenris’ hand. “Our father died there, and our sister died as we fled. We didn’t even get to burn her.”

“Her name was Bethany,” Malia said.

Alistair took Capella’s hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Lothering, to my knowledge, isn’t being rebuilt—it was such a small town, and most of the residents fled or, well… There aren’t enough people to rebuild it.”

Malia shrugged. “I don’t know that I’d want to live in a replica, anyway.” The Hawkes had long since heard that Lothering would not be rebuilt. Peaches—the girl, not the dog—had written Carver once to say as much. None of them seemed surprised. “It wouldn’t feel right. We all grew up in Lothering—my siblings and I, I mean—but I think it’s…” She shrugged again and scuffed a foot against the ground.

“Lothering will always be in our memories, like our father and Bethany,” Garrett said, “but it would hurt too much to return to that.”

“Would you consider returning to elsewhere in Ferelden?” Capella asked. The question itself was perhaps tactless, but her voice was so soft with it. “Alistair and I are touring the Free Marches to find as many of our former citizens as we can, now that we know it is safe for them to return, and that most will have someplace happy to take them. You two have done very well for yourselves. We would be personally honored if you returned.”

The siblings looked at each other. Malia half-smiled. “You’re very kind, but Kirkwall is our home now. We did more than just make a name for ourselves. Our whole lives are here, now. Our friends, our lovers, our house…”

“We understand,” Capella said. She smiled and looked at Aveline. “And you, Guard-Captain? I hear you were a soldier. We will fully reinstate you and offer any appropriate promotions, if you wish to return.”

“Your offer is appreciated, but like the Hawkes, I’m happy here. Kirkwall has its own issues, some obvious and some not, but it’s my home,” Aveline told her. 

Capella nodded. “While I regret that you will not return and the circumstances under which you were forced to flee, I am glad to hear you all stay by choice. Even though your departure from Ferelden was unfortunate, and has certainly left our country lesser for it, it is good for me to know that you have found good lives after such a profound tragedy.”

“You did, too, didn’t you, your Majesty?” Garrett half-gestured at Capella and Alistair, then apparently thought better of it. “It might not be the ideal way, but the Blight and the near civil war is part of how you were brought to the throne. I have heard of the good things you both have done for Ferelden, and it sounds to me like the country may even have the better end of that deal.”

Both Alistair and Capella smiled at him; Alistair’s pressed at his ears and eyes, and Capella’s curled her red lips. “It’s true,” Alistair said. “And we hope it lasts. It will go better if there are any refugees who have made as good as you but might be willing to return to Ferelden, but we won’t begrudge anyone for staying away. With how tense things are in some places, though, we expect some will return.”

“The Free Marches haven’t been welcoming to all Fereldans, so I’m certain you’ll find at least a few to come back.” Malia didn’t mention that the ones who’d want most to return would also be the ones least capable, but she didn’t need to. “But from how you’re talking—is it bad elsewhere? I know things in Kirkwall aren’t exactly puppies and rainbows right now with Knight-Commander Meredith’s restrictions on mages and the lack of a Viscount, but I can’t imagine that other places would have the same issues.”

“Not exactly the same, no.” Alistair and Capella shared a look. “It’s true that there’s been more arguing between mages and Templars in most places, especially since the fraternities seem to be leaning ever more towards a vote for liberation, but that’s always been a fringe effort, and I doubt the vote will pass anytime soon.”

“We are not, of course, entirely discounting the possibility, and we intend to do whatever we can to support the Circle in Ferelden as we feel is appropriate for any circumstances that come to pass, not in the least because of the terrible events we personally witnessed there during the Blight,” Capella continued. She had everyone’s attention, and I could almost hear her gearing up for a speech. “We mean only to state that, without some significant outside force, we believe the Circles will remain as they are for a long time yet. They have operated for Ages, and even if their operation has frequently been a poor example of how mages ought to be treated, it is my understanding that things in that vein have been improving.”

“Do you believe that Circles are necessary?” Garrett asked. A potentially dangerous question—I wanted to stomp on his foot for it, or perhaps reach out and snatch it back before a response could be formulated, but Garrett was too far, and the speed of sound too quick. I exchanged a horrified look with Malia.

Alistair let out a low breath. “Officially… we believe the Circles are attempting to do good work, and since they are not under our rule, we hold that they will continue in good faith.”

“Unofficially?” Because I was looking at her, I saw Malia pinch her brother’s back. He winced, but didn’t retract his statement.

Before Malia could retract it for him, Capella answered. “Unofficially, we do not have enough information or personal experience to state definitively either way. That said, however, we have multiple friends who have lived outside the Circle for much or most of their lives, and they seem no more or less a danger than your average Circle mage. I believe that the education the Circle offers is necessary in some form or another, but so long as a mage knows how to control their magic and how to avoid possession… I will admit I have seen no evidence that the Circle is the only solution.”

“You would rather have mages run amok, uncontrolled?” Fenris asked.

Capella pushed the full force of her gaze on him. I saw him tense, and wished I could have directed this conversation away from such a disastrous subject. She was not taller than him—in fact, I believed they were around the same height—but she had so much more _presence_ , so much more demand for attention. “I said no such thing. There is a great need for magic and mages to be in control, and for mages to acquire the education to manage such. As the Circle is our only current option, and appears to be the will of the Maker, we have abided by such. If this were proven an unfit decision, or if a better solution were to present itself, we would, of course, act upon it. Such is the case in all things, not only Circles and mages.

“Ferelden is proud to be the first country to return lands to the Dalish; the land we have given is small, and it requires that those who reside abide by Fereldan law, but they have no human Bann, no human Arl, no human Teyrn. This decision was looked upon with derision by the nobility in Orlais, in Nevarra, in Antiva—but we have seen what good it has done for the Dalish, and for our country. We have an elven Bann, who is responsible for the Denerim Alienage, and she has offered us great insight to bettering the lives of elves and humans alike. We see little reason that there could not be a similar reaction if mages were given such an opportunity.”

I expected Fenris to argue. He still believed the Circles were the best answer available. But Capella’s stare was unwavering, and though he did meet her eyes, he seemed unwilling (perhaps incapable) of challenging her so directly. His jaw clenched. “I see.”

“You need not agree with us,” she said, and her force of will pulled back somewhat. “As I have said, I have no reason to believe such things will come to pass, and I have enough issues to concern myself with that I do not have the time, as it stands, to learn all the details of the Circle’s existence and how treatment of mages can be improved within my own country, let alone all of Thedas.”

Malia nodded along with the words. “We’ve heard some about the trouble in Orlais. Something about a new Empress? And the Divine is—or at least was—considering an Exalted March on Kirkwall, so…”

“Things are dire in many places, yes,” Capella said.

Silence reined over us for a time, and only the background noise of the Keep reminded us that life was moving ever onwards. Alistair glanced at the door to the Viscount’s throne room. “Say, would you mind to tell us about the things that got you named Champions?”

Malia grinned wide enough I thought her head would split. “Yes! I mean, no? I mean, I’d love to tell you. Hey, Varric, get over here, let’s start with…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for posting late!!! this chapter was. very slow to write. and probably isn't very exciting for those of you who don't care as much about capella. but i love her. and she demanded her own chapter. i'm a little sorry, but not enough to not have done it in the first place.
> 
> anyway, this is apparently the Parade Of Old Faces bc you'll be seeing another one next chapter. feel free to guess! it's not someone we've seen in kirkwall yet.


	37. hi again to neria and nathaniel and carver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for being so late with this! i'm... at least a week late. probably more? deets in the end notes, ish

While Alistair and Capella were in Kirkwall, I spent as much time as possible with them, not only because I had missed them dearly, but also because they were a wonderful distraction. I didn’t have the materials to work on saving Marethari—I needed more lyrium, needed to find something she treasured enough to anchor her, needed to learn more about the demon that had been trapped on Sundermount—and I was still uncertain what it meant that I was Hanal’ghilan.

I prayed to Mythal and Ghilan’nain for guidance each night. If they heard, if they answered, I did not know it. Morrigan would have been able to help, perhaps; at the very least, she might be able to clarify whether such a thing was as unordinary as it sounded, or if I was ultimately within standard parameters for a shapeshifter. But I had no way to contact her. Even Neria had trouble reaching her, and Neria was one of the very few Daylen maintained contact with.

As if summoned by my troubles, Neria herself came to Kirkwall. I learned of this one afternoon while at the clinic—Orana came to fetch me, and when I arrived at the Hawke Estate, Leandra was serving tea to Neria and to Delilah Howe.

“Neria,” I said, catching her attention, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here; I wasn’t expecting you.”

She stood, smiling at me, and came to give me a hug. I hoped she didn’t mind the lingering odor Darktown left on my clothing. “No, I wouldn’t have thought so,” she said, and pulled me to sit, too, already acting at ease in the Hawkes’ home. “I didn’t have a chance to send a letter, really. Vigil’s Keep has been busy.”

I nodded at Delilah, who nodded back. “What’s brought you all this way, then? Both of you, actually.”

Delilah lifted her teacup before I finished speaking, leaving Neria to do the talking. Leandra, apparently satisfied with the distribution of tea, sat to listen, as well. “A short while ago—long enough to have been too long—Castor and I sent a few Wardens to scout the Deep Roads up here. As I said, it’s been very busy in Vigil’s Keep, and we didn’t notice how long they’d been gone until Delilah came around asking after her brother.”

“Nathaniel makes sure to visit at least once a month, and usually more than that,” Delilah said. “When he was given this mission, he let me know he would be gone for a month, but when more than that passed with no further information, I became worried. I went immediately to the Wardens, and Neria was kind enough to accompany me here when they realized he had been gone too long.”

“Carver is with him—and a few others, but none you would know,” said Neria. Leandra pressed a hand over her heart.

“They’re missing?” she asked. “For how long?”

Neria reached out and placed a soothing hand upon Leandra’s arm. “Not long enough that I don’t expect to find them alive and well,” she promised. “Just long enough that it is time to start looking.”

Leandra continued to frown, her eyebrows drawn close together. I leaned in just enough that she turned her gaze to me, and I held her eyes with my own. “Carver and Nathaniel are both very capable, and a Warden’s stamina is greater than most. They may need help, but I’m certain they’ll be alright, especially if Neria believes so, too.”

Her eyebrows didn’t part, but she did nod, and her shoulders lowered ever so slightly. “I hope you’re right. I hear so little from Carver as it is…”

“We’ll bring him straight here,” I said, even though I had no idea what plans Neria held or what Carver’s intent might be when he was done with his primary mission. Leandra gave me a tight, tiny smile; that was worth whatever fuss Carver might kick up.

Delilah put her teacup down and met Leandra’s eyes next. “I’ve spent some time with Carver—Nathaniel has brought him to dinner once or twice. I’m confident they’ll be safe with the Warden-Constable and Vir’era to fetch them, and I will personally see to it that Carver finds more time to write home after.”

“Oh, you’re such a dear,” Leandra told her, grasping one of Delilah’s hands for a moment. “You don’t need to trouble yourself; I know he’s busy…”

“Too busy to take ten minutes out of his day and send a letter to his worried mother? I think not.” Delilah sniffed. “If Constable Neria can find time to write letters to her lover, and Commander Castor can find time to go so far as to visit his sister, there is no excuse for a lower-ranked Warden not to write home. Am I wrong, Neria?”

Neria, smiling, shook her head. “Not in the least, Delilah, not in the least.”

“You girls are too sweet.” Leandra clutched a hand over her heart, but she was smiling, too. “Now, don’t tell me you intend to go alone, Neria. You may be Warden-Constable, and Vir’era is certainly capable in his own right, but I can’t imagine that only the two of you could possibly be enough to help with whatever troubles have stalled my son and Nathaniel and whoever else they are traveling with.”

Neria hummed. “Well, no. It’s true that I didn’t bring more Wardens with me, nor even any of Amaranthine’s soldiers, but time was of the essence. Additionally, considering the—well, the destination we sent our original complement to, well. I actually intend to ask for your other children’s help. Malia and Garrett.”

“Malia and Garrett? But why?” Leandra looked back and forth between Delilah and Neria, and I started to concentrate on Neria myself. “Surely other Grey Wardens would be more useful in the Deep Roads than my children. They may be the Champions of Kirkwall, but they’ve only been to the Deep Roads once, and that was years ago!”

Neria winced. A niggling suspicion bloomed in the back of my mind, like I’d been expecting this, and I got a bad feeling. I sat up straighter. “You’re trying to find the thaig,” I accused.

Neria winced again, and when I said nothing more, she nodded.

“I _explicitly_ asked that no one try to find it.” I couldn’t remember my exact words, but I remembered the thaig, I remembered the fear, and I remembered the red lyrium. I knew nothing good would come of it. “I _begged_ you to let it stay hidden, forgotten.”

Neria refused to meet my eyes. She stared instead into the teacup she’d been given. No one else made any sounds; I would not be surprised if they were not even breathing in that silence as I waited for a response, a confirmation, a denial, anything. “Neria!”

Her always-pale fingers were bone-white as she clasped them together. “It wasn’t our idea, you understand,” she said, at last, her eyes still on the teacup, her lashes preventing me from seeing them properly.

I stood, my chair scraping against the floor with an awful sound. “Let’s not get into this here.” I didn’t want to argue in front of Leandra and Delilah—already, they were very still, very quiet. This was a Warden matter, anyhow. “Please excuse us, Leandra, Delilah. Neria… Come with me.”

I waited only long enough to see that Neria was, in fact, going to follow me, and then I led her to my room. After she entered, I closed the door, mindful not to slam it, and stared at the wood for a moment to calm the whirling tempest of my emotions. (It didn’t work, not in full, but it did give me time enough to remember myself.) I let out a slow breath and turned to face Neria.

She was looking at me, now. Her lips were thin and her eyebrows furrowed, but her shoulders were even and her back was straight. For a long moment, I just held her gaze. She didn’t waver. “Why?” I asked.

“Weisshaupt,” she said, her answer prompt this time. Without further needling, she explained, “After your expedition with the Hawkes, and the letters you sent back to us, Castor and I fully intended to follow your advice. You haven’t known everything, no, but the things you’ve known… Well, simply put, we knew better than to take it lightly.

“We made a mistake, though. We didn’t think it was one at the time, because—well, we were still new at all this, and Castor might have training for how to be a nobleman, but he never intended to join any army, so this was… He wanted to cover his bases, and he wanted to make sure that other Wardens could know to avoid it. And I’ve only had experience with the Circles and with the Wardens, so I thought it was a good idea, too.”

“You told Weisshaupt about the thaig,” I said. But from the sounds of it, that was years ago. If it had been so long… “I still don’t understand.”

“Why it took so long to send someone?” she asked, and I nodded. She gave me a little half-smile. “Weisshaupt wanted us to send someone immediately, actually. We—well, we began to play a game of delaying it. Honestly, I don’t know how Castor kept it on for as long as he did. I think he meant to have them forget eventually, but—well, red lyrium is unheard of, so for one of the Heroes of the Fifth Blight to claim to have found a place full of it? If it were anyone else, I think they may have been skeptical. But we’ve done so many strange things, so many near-impossible things, that I suppose they decided it had to be more than rumor.”

“So no matter what Castor did or said, they wouldn’t forget about it, and we really should be thankful he delayed this excursion for so long, then,” I concluded. The words tasted sour on my tongue, and this must have been apparent, because Neria cringed.

“It was a mistake. We should never have told them.” For just a moment, her professionalism ebbed, and she tugged on her hair. “Our saving grace may be that you never told us where it was, so we could not tell them. They have to find it anew, and from the sounds of it—well. It _has_ been over six years since the Blight ended. The darkspawn have returned underground. Doubtlessly that’s what’s keeping Nathaniel and his team, though I do hope there’s nothing more intimidating than that.”

The Deep Roads could be hiding any number of strange things. I also hoped there was nothing more than darkspawn, but it would have to be an awful lot of darkspawn to so successfully trap a complement of Grey Wardens—especially one that included both Carver and Nathaniel. I looked away from her, looked at where my armor hung on a rack that one of the Hawkes had snuck into my room once.

“Malia and Garrett should be back soon. We can head out after dinner; if we are lucky, we will manage a decent distance before nightfall.” I said nothing more of the thaig or of her failure to keep it secret.

 

The trip to the Deep Roads entrance was much shorter than I remembered—a couple days rather than a full week. Perhaps it was due to having a party of only five, rather than a full company and all their necessities; perhaps it was because we knew, this time, exactly where we were going.

In no lifetime will I forget that path. Dread seeped deeper into my skin with each step I took until I felt it like the Blight in my blood, pulsing with each beat of my pounding heart. My feet moved the slowest just before we entered the Deep Roads, slow enough that Neria turned to check on me.

The darkspawn taint had grown thick in the years since I first stepped foot there. I nearly asked the Hawkes if they could feel it, too, if they could sense the darkspawn in the distance dragging broken nails over their brain matter. It was so omnipresent, so close to tangible, that I stared when Malia made a flippant, passing remark about how nothing had changed.

For me, everything had.

Neria could sense the darkspawn, too, and with the training she’d had over the years as Warden-Constable, she was a far more accurate darkspawn dowsing rod than I. I knew when they were near, knew when ogres were among their numbers, and could tell if there was a mix of Hurlocks and Genlocks; I could not count their numbers.

“Three Hurlocks in about twenty meters,” Neria said, voice hush-quiet. The caves didn’t echo, didn’t carry sound further than immediately forward, but instinct kept us silent.

Varric glanced at me. “You really can’t do that, Mittens?” he whispered after we had closed in just enough that the Hurlocks were visible to elves and dwarves. “Haven’t you been a Warden for just as long?”

I barely kept myself from rolling my eyes. “It’s not about how long you’re a Warden. It’s about how much you use it. How often have I been in the Deep Roads, Varric?”

He hummed. “Fair enough. Wait, is this the first time since our expedition?”

Instead of responding, I put shields up over everyone, and just in time—hardly a moment afterwards, an arrow hit Varric in the chest. My shield kept it from doing more than lightly bruising.

“Hey, ugly!” Varric shouted, hefting Bianca for, I assumed, an ideal shot. “That was rude! I’m trying to have a conversation here!” He shot the Hurlock in the head.

Malia and Garrett were squinting into the distance; the Deep Roads here were not well-lit, and their human eyes probably couldn’t see more than shadowy shapes. Neria, however, had drawn her sword and was halfway to the remaining two. I took pity on them all, and destroyed one Hurlock with a strong Winter’s Grasp. Neria reached the other soon; it swung at her, but missed, and she decapitated it.

“Normally, I like being human just fine, but I have to admit I’m a little jealous that you all can actually _see_ down here,” Malia said, kicking the head out of her way as she passed it. “I mean, I don’t need more life-threatening situations, but I feel a little like dead weight.”

“Oh, don’t worry, we don’t think of you like that,” Varric said.

“Yeah,” Garrett added. “For one, you’re still walking on your own.”

“Also, dead things don’t usually talk.”

“Mm. They’re much quieter. Oh, actually, _can_ we make her into dead weight? I could use some peace and quiet at the Estate sometimes.” Garrett grinned when Varric snorted.

“ _You’re_ one to talk about peace and quiet,” Malia said, jabbing one pointed finger into her brother’s chest. “There are some things sisters aren’t _supposed_ to hear, you know, and one of those is their brother having loud sex with his apostate boyfriend from two rooms away.”

Garrett poked her right back. “Just because you’re not getting any doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me, Malia. Besides, your boyfriend actually has a house. Mine lives with us. We can’t go elsewhere.”

Malia made a face. “Fenris doesn’t clean his mansion. It took the bodies starting to smell enough for people to complain before he even removed the slavers from it. The ones we killed when we met him. That was weeks, Garrett.”

Garrett mirrored Malia’s disgust. Varric coughed. “If you two don’t mind? I’m pretty sure we didn’t come down here for sibling bonding. Don’t you get enough of that in Kirkwall?”

They shrugged at him simultaneously. Malia said, “No,” even as Garrett said, “Yes.” They immediately turned to each other and stared—Malia put a hand over her heart and feigned injury while Garrett just raised both his eyebrows over an otherwise stony face.

Neria looked at me. I half-shrugged. We moved on.

 

Someone somewhere, on some higher plane of existence, was looking out for Nathaniel and Carver. We were barely a day’s walk into the Deep Roads proper (a bit more than two days from the surface) when we found them. First we found Nathaniel, completely surrounded by darkspawn. If we hadn’t come—if we’d been a day later—well, it was possible he’d have survived, but… ‘possible’ and ‘likely’ are not the same.

As the last darkspawn fell, Nathaniel finally gave us more than brief glances. “Who—Neria? You’re supposed to be in Amaranthine still. What are you—wait, Vir’era?” He stared at me, and I stared back. I didn’t know what to say. We hadn’t seen each other in person for six years—and though we’d exchanged the occasional letter… Paper and ink are so entirely different from flesh and blood. They’re incomparable.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” I said, pushing my lips into some kind of smile. My sternum may as well have gone concave for how it ached. I hadn’t thought this old pain would return, but here it was. “I’m glad you’re… I’m glad we made it in time.”

He blinked and glanced around, like it was the first he’d noticed my companions. “The older Hawkes,” he noted, and I think it was the first I had ever heard someone refer to the Hawkes with a descriptor before their name. “I remember you, though most of what I know is what Carver has told me.”

Garrett and Malia shifted and shared glances. Malia peered through the dim light like she might be able to spot any lies told. “He hasn’t made us sound like _complete_ assholes, has he?”

Nathaniel frowned. “Not more than any other siblings might be. He has mostly good things to say.”

“Good things? About us? You’re certain this is the same Carver?” Malia asked. “Did becoming a Grey Warden actually mature him?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Nathaniel said, the frown deepening. “He’s had a level head as long as I’ve known him.”

“You must understand,” Garrett said. “He’s never said many good things to our faces.”

“To your face, maybe,” Malia countered, elbowing Garrett’s side. “My shock is for comedic value first and foremost, and you of all people should know this. Carver actually gets along with me.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, neither of you have magic, so it was a bit easier for you to play outside with him and join armies and whatnot.”

“And I try not to be a dick to him.”

“I only returned what was done to me, and you know it.”

“Oh, sure. You’re both dicks to each other. That makes it better.”

“Girls, girls!” Varric interrupted, placing one gloved hand on each Hawke’s arm. “You’re both very pretty and probably have reasons for your own behavior. Can we try not to turn this into a reenactment of the last Merchant’s Guild meeting? It’s bad for my headache. Which I didn’t have, by the way, before this.”

“Sorry, Varric.” Somehow, they actually both managed to sound at least a little apologetic, too; there had to be something magical in Varric’s voice, even though he was a dwarf.

With the second sibling spat of the day over (for now), Neria turned a smile that was just a shade too bright on Nathaniel. “We’re here for you, actually. For your team. You’ve been gone far longer than we expected, and Delilah insisted we come to find you, make sure you’re safe. Where are the others?”

Nathaniel heaved a great sigh and pointed with his full arm deeper in. “Those still alive are a quarter of a league that way.”

Neria gestured for him to lead the way, and he did so. “Who did we lose?”

“Three and Jace. Bonnie wasn’t looking good when I left, either, but someone had to scout ahead, and I’m the best we had left for sneaking.” Given that he’d still been ambushed, that said a lot about how poorly the rest of the team did at going unnoticed.

Neria nodded, a short, brusque movement. “Thank you.”

“So, Warden,” Varric began as we walked, “just how close did you make it?”

“How close?” Nathaniel repeated. He glanced at Neria and pursed his lips.

She gave him only a half-hearted shrug. “I told them. They know more than we do about it, anyway; it can’t hurt that they know.”

He seemed to accept this reasoning, and he answered Varric’s question. “I can’t honestly say how close we came. Part of the tunnels we believe you used had collapsed—our expert said it looked intentional—and though we were able to go deeper underground through other paths, between the darkspawn and other cave-ins, we couldn’t be certain that we were heading in the right direction.”

“So, you got lost?” Malia asked.

Nathaniel gave her a flat look. “Lost would imply that we couldn’t find our way back. We weren’t—aren’t—lost.”

“But the thaig _is_ ,” clarified Garrett.

“Well, _we_ certainly didn’t find it, and I don’t see you jumping up to do so.”

I couldn’t help myself; I interjected. “It should stay lost. Nothing good will come of it; lyrium is dangerous enough as it stands, but red lyrium—it is a nightmare wholly indescribable, unlike anything else I have encountered—I would rather face another Archdemon than see red lyrium on the surface.”

(I knew Corypheus had—would have?—an Archdemon. But maybe the red lyrium could stay where it already resided, festering there and nowhere else…)

“Weisshaupt wouldn’t take no for an answer. We had to go eventually. They were starting to suggest we allow other Wardens to investigate,” Nathaniel explained, repeating more or less what Neria had already told me. “Other Wardens who might not take your word for these things, even if they should.”

“I have seen more of its danger than the First Warden could possibly imagine,” I snapped, unable to control the fear and anger caused by this expedition. My words grew louder with each syllable, consonants harsh enough to scrape my mouth as they left it. “Nothing good can come of its discovery! _Nothing!_ ”

The silence after slid like acid in my stomach, burning a hole through my torso. Seconds and stages later, the bone-scraping shadow of darkspawn at the edges of my awareness became audible evidence of their position, loud enough that even the Hawkes were able to focus their attention in the right direction.

“Right!” Malia announced, pointing a dagger towards the sounds. “Omens and foreboding, check. Let’s go save Carver instead, now. Everybody in? No more strange prophecies or awkward revelations?”

I sighed and sparked up shields over everyone without comment. Garrett snorted. “I agree with Vir’era.”

With that, we launched into battle. Neria led the charge, her sword aloft and aflame, sending flickering light washing over the walls. Darkspawn eyes shone just ahead, and beyond that, in another patch of light, I could see Carver’s sword flash with an upward arc that sent a Genlock flying. Well, to be fair, it could’ve been anyone’s sword, since I couldn’t see its wielder, but there were only so many options, and Carver was the only one I knew.

I was right. A few more swings of his sword, plus a series of arrows from Nathaniel, and Carver was visible. He didn’t see us initially—oh, he knew Nathaniel was there, from the arrows if nothing else, but he didn’t look in our direction.

I stayed my hand, not knowing where in the throngs of darkspawn the other Wardens might be. This gave me time to watch everyone else and ensure they were not in need of healing; it also gave me time to become distracted by Carver. He’d always been a good fighter, and even three years ago I’d seen great improvement from when we had first met, but now?

Now, he wielded his greatsword much as if it were an extension of himself, and spun in ways which could accurately be described as graceful. In fact… he was beautiful, almost. In his element, certainly, a force to be reckoned with and a scourge to darkspawn. Blood covered his sword and splashed onto his armor, mahogany accenting silver and blue.

In another lifetime, I might have fallen in love with him. In this one—well, perhaps I did, but only a little. Only enough that my eyes lingered on him, in awe of his newfound mastery over his body and his sword. (Did it extend, an errant thought wondered, to his… _sword_?)

While there were a great number of darkspawn, the appearance of my group doubled the number fighting them, and it was not terribly long before we had slain all the darkspawn present. Then, and only then, the haggard Grey Wardens on their misfortunate expedition took the time to actually register our presence beyond ‘some miraculous aid.’

“Neria?” Like Nathaniel before him, Carver noticed Neria first. She was the smallest of us, but she was a Warden and an Arcane Warrior; these alone made her presence grander.

“What, no love for your big sister?” Malia asked.

“Hello, sister,” Carver greeted, his voice as dull as his blade was not. “And Vir’era. Varric. Brother.”

“Mother will be glad to know you’re alright,” Garrett said. He cleared his throat and shifted. “She’d like to see you, and I’m afraid we’ve already promised her you’d come.”

Carver heaved a great sigh and nodded. “I had thought I might try to visit since I was in the area, anyway.” He managed to somehow still sound disappointed.

Neria tugged my arm and attention to the side, pulling me along, as the Hawke siblings continued their stilted conversation. “Vee, if you don’t mind, you’re still a much better healer than I’ve ever managed, and Bonnie could use some more direct, magical aid.”

 

Nathaniel and Carver stood very close together every time we stopped on our way back out, and I couldn’t help noticing. I tried not to stare, or to attract attention to the fact that I had most definitely noticed how they stayed near each other at all times, but—well, I’m sure it’s quite obvious. I’ve rarely been a subtle person.

“I hope you’re not upset with me,” Nathaniel said as he and I took watch one night.

“What for?” I asked, as if I did not know.

Nate glanced askance at me. “Don’t lie, Vir’era. Please.”

I took a deep breath, but nodded. My fingers rubbed at some smudges along Maleficent’s shaft; I would need to polish her thoroughly when we returned to Kirkwall. “I know. I-I’m not upset. I don’t… well, I suppose I just didn’t expect… But I-I knew I’d never return. And that we—from the start, I knew it was short. And, really, it’s been years; I’m not—I stopped—I still miss it, sometimes, and I think that maybe I always will, but I… let go.”

“There hasn’t been anyone else for you?” he asked. “I know we don’t write much, but I thought maybe by now you might have…”

Maleficent had been with me for years, and even though her shaft was made of sturdy obsidian, she was beginning to show her age; there were scrapes on her shaft and notches on her blade. I should look into replacing her, but despaired at the thought. “No. I haven’t really had time, I guess. It’s—dangerous, Kirkwall. And it’s not that I haven’t… thought about it with… but, well. I’ve made no secret that I only prefer men, and you surely know how much harder it is to find anyone of similar tastes.”

He hummed. “You’ve got a point.”

“So, you and Carver,” I said, trying to push the focus off of myself and my own lack of romantic entanglement, “how long has that been going on?”

“Just over a year now,” he answered, then coughed. “It, ah. It may have been earlier, but, well… Velanna and I are, ah. Also.”

“Also?”

“It’s the three of us,” he said. I looked at him, but he did not face me in return, staring determinedly out into the vast wilderness. A warm breeze, blown in from the not-so-distant sea, pulled at his hair and mine. “Velanna and Carver and I. It’s—unconventional, I know, but…”

I couldn’t help the little puff of amusement. He was being so delicate with his words that I could almost see him roll each one around his mind before allowing it to come out. This side of him—the romantic side, the devoted lover—was so much more vulnerable than any other. I’d experienced it firsthand, and now I saw how it looked for others. It pressed my lips into a smile and pricked wetness into my eyes.

“All that matters is that you’re all happy,” I said. “How does it affect me if you have one lover or ten? If you are happy, if they are happy… then, old friend, I am happy for you. It’s a hard thing to have and hold in this world.”

He did face me, then, his eyebrows scrunched but his lips curved up. “Thank you… old friend. I hope you find such happiness, too.”

I didn’t know where I _could_ find it, but I appreciated the thought. “Someday, perhaps. If the gods are willing.”

If only I knew where to look. Sebastian, for all his charm and kindness, for all that I had originally been infatuated with him, was simply not a viable choice. He’d shown no interest in men at all, let alone any interest in me, and our disparate faiths would surely prove too difficult to overcome, even if I were willing to make the attempt. And no other men had truly caught my eye—at least, none who I thought might be… well, amenable.

Plus, what time did I have for romance? The eleventh hour for Anders’ crisis was drawing ever nearer, and Keeper Marethari’s unspoken admission still weighed heavily in my gut. I had too much to do to allow myself to dwell overmuch on my lack of romantic prospects.

And we’d still not found Corypheus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to first take a quick moment to thank everyone for reading and sticking with me through my slowness <3 and for those of you who comment, you have infinite love. especially especially to those of you who've been here for a long while
> 
> second, i hope nathaniel's kind of... character-arc-thing? doesn't seem too random or off the wall, bc i've kind of had it planned for. uh. a long while? i can't even remember how long. feels like a year. might even be. but, yes, that's been in the works and i'm kind of excited to finally reveal it. i guess it's not really a spoiler now, but you can safely assume nate and vee are not going to get back together. i thought about doing that. i did. but decided against it. i'm rambling, sorry
> 
> anyway! the reason for recent slowness is mostly as such: i've accepted a job offer in china!!! so i'm workin my lil ass off tryin to get everything all in order, including running back and forth to houston (harvey made things slower) to put stuff through the consulate there. i don't have a date for leaving yet, bc i'm still working on getting my work visa, but i'm expecting to leave in the next... month, ish. so things are going to be kind of slow for a while as i prep to leave, do the actual leaving, and then settle in! i'll be on tumblr p often, so if you want to talk, always feel free; i just might not reply immediately (mostly for aforementioned reasons but also low energy)!


	38. i'm screaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick preemptive note: i've,,,,,never actually,,,, played the legacy dlc. i watched a single walkthrough and used the wiki guide for it. so this is. just. i made half of it up. i'm sorry if you were looking forward to some grand chapter for that bc it's. a mess.
> 
> my energy for writing has also been low so combining that with my lack of desire to write this chapter in general, and that's why it's both late and terrible, and i'm sorry for that. we'll be getting back to good shit soon, i hope. i have Plans.

I spoke too soon. I wasn’t present when strange-acting Carta members attacked the Hawke estate, nor did they bother to seek me out, so I only found out about it after the fact. Long enough after, somehow (despite the fact that I lived in the very same house), that it was only as Garrett and Varric were planning their trip out to _find_ the source that I was made truly aware of the goings-on.

“Varric, you know who they were?” I asked.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Now, I didn’t know most of them by name, but I recognized a couple faces, and their uniforms were familiar.”

“Familiar enough that you found where you think they came from.”

“Yeah.” He pointed out a spot on the Hawkes’ map of the area surrounding Kirkwall. “They’re supposed to be here, but no one’s heard from that sect in a while. We thought they got wiped out by Tal-Vashoth or something, and good riddance. Seems we were wrong.”

“Seems so.” Pursing my lips as I studied the map, I tried to figure out any way to hint at what I believed this meant. (Should I try to stop them from going? Was it my duty to prevent the terrible things I knew might come to pass, or was it my duty to ensure the best possible outcome?)

“Something on your mind, Mittens?”

I glanced up at Varric and tried not to look like I knew something I shouldn’t. From his raised eyebrow and intense stare, I doubted I was successful. Perhaps… Corypheus had something to do with Grey Wardens, I remembered that much; he could control the Blight, to an extent—or at least use it to control Wardens? I couldn’t recall. “You remember the maps we used six years ago, right? For the Deep Roads?”

“Hard to forget.” He peered closer at the map in front of us, and so did Garrett. “Not sure what you’re getting at, though. I may have seen the maps, but I didn’t sit down and memorize every detail of them.”

“Me either,” said Garrett, all but glowering down at the parchment.

I tapped generally in the spot Varric had pointed to earlier. “None of us did, but this spot—I remember something was on the maps in this spot. I don’t know what, or how it’s significant, but there was something there.”

“There are lot of things that could be on a map,” Garrett said dryly. “Could you be a bit more specific? Was it a thaig or some darkspawn camp or just a really significant rock?”

A snort left me without permission. Malia might be more likely to make jokes, but that didn’t mean Garrett never made any. “None of the above. If I remember correctly, it was some kind of Grey Warden… something. Not a fortress like Vigil’s Keep or Weisshaupt, or I’d remember it, and there would probably be more Wardens around.”

“Maybe it’s been abandoned. I’ll ask Carver if he knows anything. He’s probably seen maps more recently than you have, at least.”

There wasn’t really any way for me to tell him not to. I had to just hope it wouldn’t out me as a liar.

 

Anders, tired of being left behind ‘all the time,’ insisted on joining us—‘us’ being the Hawkes (including Carver), myself, and Varric. Nathaniel and the other Wardens had already left for Amaranthine, and I was grateful they wouldn’t be exposed to what awaited us. Nathaniel had been reluctant to leave Carver behind alone in Kirkwall, but Neria and Delilah had convinced him it was for the best.

Fenris came along, too, but he was almost never far from Malia nowadays, and I would have been more surprised if he’d chosen to stay when she asked—especially so soon after we had spent nearly two weeks trekking to find and return Nathaniel and Carver.

Truthfully, I should have excused myself, or perhaps I should have begged them to wait a few days. It had been weeks since I was last with the clan, and after everything… perhaps it made me a negligent First, knowing as I did that Marethari’s life was in a grave danger of her own making.

But I didn’t want to face them. My heart pounded into my mouth every time I so much as thought of returning, bringing with it the taste of blood and fear. No, I knew I could not avoid them forever, but every time I put it off, it felt like I might somehow scrounge up extra days, extra months for Marethari. She didn’t need to die. She shouldn’t need to.

Merrill didn’t come with. Ever since Theron had visited, I’d seen her less and less. Isabela always made a point of hanging around the Hanged Man, at least for most evenings, but Merrill… I wasn’t certain when the last time I’d spoken to her at length was.

Aveline didn’t have the time to spare more than a couple of days in a row for the Hawkes and their adventures, now that she’d become a well-loved and well-respected Guard-Captain, and they did not ask it of her. Sebastian, too, claimed he was busy with something he did not disclose the details of, so he did not come, either—and Peaches was given the duty of looking after Leandra while the house was empty.

It took us only two days to find the carta encampment Varric thought the dwarves had come from. When we got there, though, instead of living people, all we found were corpses. The smell was unpleasant; though they were mostly intact (barring a bit of marring from scavenger birds), they’d been dead a few days, at least.

Yet that was not the strangest thing, though the truly strange thing was one I had expected. Carver looked at me, eyebrows drawn close in a frown. “Vir’era,” he said, slowly, “do you feel that, too?”

I nodded. Anders glanced between us and said aloud: “It’s the taint. But it’s not darkspawn.”

 

“Did you ever meet any ghouls?” I asked him even as I peered over a broken bottle. It had not held liquor, if the stains still clinging to its glass were any indication.

“Ghouls?” The question came not from Anders, but from Malia. She… was picking the pockets of the dead, even the ones with soiled pants. If she wanted corpse-money so badly, she could have it.

“That’s what Wesley was becoming,” Garrett supplied. It meant little to the rest of us, but Malia made a sound of comprehension.

“I don’t believe I did,” said Anders, when Malia didn’t bring up any new queries. “Why?”

I pointed at what little skin was visible on the nearest dwarf. “Look at him. The black veins and half-rotting skin—these aren’t from after he died.”

Malia recoiled from her current exploit. “Please tell me you’re playing a bad prank, Vee. I don’t want to catch the Blight, thanks. No offense to you or Carver or Anders, but I like not being a Grey Warden, thanks.”

Anders snorted. “For as much as I count as one nowadays.”

“Exactly. You mostly just have the nightmares, which I’d like to avoid, please, pretty please.”

“With a cherry on top?” I asked.

“Sure, if it means no Blight.”

“Then congratulations,” I told her, holding up my hands with splayed fingers. “You’ve won a wonderful prize! You get… nothing. The prize is not getting the Blight.”

She scrunched her nose at me even as she scooted back from all the dead dwarves in sight. “You’re certain about that, are you?”

“Think of the Blight like an STD.” She squinted at me. “Sexually-Transmitted Disease? I’m sure I’ve heard Anders talk about those to… someone. Please tell me I don’t need to give you that talk, too.”

“So, like rashes in unfortunate places?” she clarified.

Garrett groaned. “Anders has definitely used the term STD, and I’m going to leave if you’re going to sit down and talk about genital warts. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’m not enduring that.”

Malia’s face broke into a cheeky smile, which I took to mean she was only having me on. “Right. Anyway, think of the Blight like an STD, almost. If someone or something that has the Blight only touches you, you’re probably fine. But if you, say, drink their blood, or if it gets into one of your own wounds, or sometimes even if they just do as little as bite you, you’ll catch the Blight and live a very short, tainted life before either dying or becoming a ghoul.”

“And dying’s the better option,” Carver pitched in. “Trust me.”

“Do you see many ghouls when you become a Grey Warden, or is it just a coincidence that the only two who were actually Grey Wardens for more than maybe two weeks have both seen ghouls?” Malia asked then.

I blinked. Anders protested, “I was a proper Warden for a few _months_ , thank you.”

“Weeks, months, same thing.”

“Malia, please,” Garrett said, interrupting whatever retort Anders might have thrown. She sighed but relented.

“To answer your question, sister,” said Carver, “most Grey Wardens will eventually see a ghoul. Not all, and not immediately, but most do.”

“Makes sense to me.” Varric still used one of his crossbow bolts to stab up a piece of paper. “Three guesses what’s on here; first two don’t count.”

 

It was a note.

A note that, more specifically, led us to an old fortress. I couldn’t begin to describe how completely and utterly eerie it is to know a place like you had been there before, yet be simultaneously incapable of recognizing it. Perhaps it is comparable to opening a door in a dream to a room you have never seen, yet it is precisely the room you knew it would be.

Underneath our feet, somewhere in the subterranean bowels of this fortress, the sensation of music lilted into my blood, and I knew this was Corypheus. It was different from the Archdemon’s song, and different even from the Architect’s—the Architect’s song had been like a key-shift to the Archdemon’s, but Corypheus? The difference was greater.

“Do you feel it, Carver?” I asked, and my voice sounded distant even to my own ears.

“There’s a lot of darkspawn,” he answered, looking around us, pausing where the taint collected in the distant forms of other creatures. “And ghouls. This is a Grey Warden fortress, but I don’t feel any Wardens…”

I didn’t have a chance to correct him. Some dwarf—one Varric recognized, whose name I did not catch—came shouting about the Hawkes’ blood, and we had to kill him. He was tainted anyway. There were others, too, after that. A Carta leader of some repute, I think, who had some strange relic Malia immediately claimed.

While we made our way in, the Hawkes trying to figure out why their blood was needed and why so many Carta dwarves had been voluntarily ingesting darkspawn blood, I felt for Corypheus and for other Wardens. Was there a way to ensure Corypheus did not escape? Perhaps if we destroyed everything and everyone here… It was a cruel thought, but surely it was better than allowing the wanton destruction he would cause if we allowed his escape.

We fought darkspawn and even a few demons, but still my thoughts remained occupied—even the voice of Malcolm Hawke did not register as noteworthy. I listened intently for Corypheus instead, trying to parse how he could control the Blight, trying to see if he knew we were there.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the shambling, shuffling form of the ghoul that had been Larius. His voice was almost impossible to understand. He muttered, mumbled, whispered, and did not enunciate; I stood too far to hear more than Garrett and Malia’s side of the conversation. I knew only that it concerned their father and the deal he’d made with the Grey Wardens of this fortress—the deal he’d made with Larius.

Malia and Garrett argued over who should undo the barriers. “It’s magic,” Garrett said, shoving one hand in the direction of a glowing sigil. “I’d say that’s _my_ area of expertise, not yours!”

“It’s blood magic, Garrett! I won’t allow you to risk yourself to demons just because you’re the mage here. It’s safer if I do it.”

“ _Safer_? Malia, you’re just as vulnerable to demons as I am. You just can’t see them. I don’t—Father wouldn’t want you to risk yourself like that.”

“I can’t be tempted if I can’t see them.”

“You can still be possessed.”

“I’d have to let them in for that, and I don’t plan to.”

“Malia, please…”

“Garrett. I know I don’t always act it, but I _am_ your big sister. Please let me do this. I can’t—I know it wasn’t my fault, what happened to Bethany, but I can’t stand by and let even a chance of something like that happen to you. Please. Let me.” Her hands formed trembling fists at her sides. Fenris looked like he wanted to reach out, but he made no move to; I think he did not want to disturb the scene.

Garrett stared at his sister for a long, long moment. Anders took his hand and drew his attention. The slightest glow blinked under his skin. “She’ll be safe,” he said. “Safer than you would be.”

And all the air in Garrett’s lungs slipped out in a sigh that pulled my heart to the floor with it. He nodded and stepped back. Malia’s shoulders relaxed as he did, settling closer to their normal position, and she nodded at Anders. Before she could continue, though, Fenris put one hand on her shoulder and looked to Anders as well, saying, “You are certain she will be safe.”

Anders did not jump to his own defense, but met Fenris’ eyes. Justice flickered behind his eyes once more. “She will be.”

Fenris held his gaze. Justice did not surface again, and soon he turned to Malia. “If you feel uncertain at any point, you will stop. There is always another way, even if we must create it.”

She smiled at him. “I promise. Can I do the highly illegal and extremely dangerous almost-blood-magic and start us on the way back now?”

She did the blood magic, or the unsealing, or whatever it truly was, and we continued forward.

We were in the fortress for a long time. At some point, we even paused to eat and wipe the worst detritus from our weapons and armor. I recall little of it. My mind drifted too easily. Larius met us and ran off and met us and ran off—a woman tried to stop us, and the Hawkes denied her plans. (They reminded me of another thing I must stop, must fix—what was that Commander’s name? The Orlesian one…)

And then, suddenly, I could feel nothing but Corypheus’ song. I stopped, and for a moment, I was able to listen unperturbed. I did not understand it. I wanted to. If I just…

“Hey! Mittens! Don’t fall behind, now.” I refocused my attention on Varric. He’d dropped back to check on me. Anders glanced back, too—they all did. Varric beckoned with his free hand. “C’mon. You’re supposed to be the one who knows more about this place, aren’t you?”

“Corypheus is calling,” I answered, but I stepped back up to walk with my friends. “I can feel him. Louder than the Architect. Or maybe just… more.”

“Calling?” he asked. Anders came to walk at my side, peering at me with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“Do you remember, Anders?” I asked instead. “The Architect’s song? Like the Archdemon’s, but smaller.”

Anders looked away for a half-second. “I try not to think of that time. I left it behind.”

It wasn’t a true answer. I didn’t care. “He is like the Architect, I think. Corypheus.”

“So we should make a deal with him? Let him live, like Janeka was saying?”

“No,” I said, “not that kind of like. He needs to be destroyed. He’s too much like the Archdemon. He mustn’t be allowed to continue.”

“Right. Creepy prophecies, always a good sign,” said Varric. “Are you sure you’re alright, Mittens? I don’t think I like this side of you. Not a good look.”

I hummed, and the sound resonated with Corypheus’ call enough to speed my heart. It was not good. “I’ll be better when we’re done.”

If anyone thought it strange that I insisted on burning everything we killed, they did not bring it up where I could hear. Of course, with how much of my mind was preoccupied by the sheer idea of Corypheus, this was little surprise.

Anders and Carver heard it, too. Eventually. Why it took them longer, I didn’t know. It affected Anders worse, and I didn’t know why that was, either. I only knew that Justice flickered closer to the surface, scattering flashes of ethereal blue light over the tunnels as we traversed. As bad as that meant things were for Anders, every time the light caught my eyes, I remembered myself again.

How long did it take? It could have been hours. Could have been minutes. I put one foot in front of the other, called on the Fade for protection when we met trouble, and tried to parse what the song meant without succumbing to it. It was important that I figure it out. I was sure of it. If I could only learn what Corypheus was projecting, perhaps—perhaps—well, I didn’t know what. Something. Something that I thought I wanted to happen. Surely nothing bad.

We stood still a moment before the final seal. Larius was there, I think. My mind was fogged with the sound of Corypheus. He was too close, now. Fenris spoke to me, and all my energy went to carrying a conversation with him.

“Why is Carver not so affected?” he asked me.

I tilted my head, thinking. Carver, Anders, and I were all tainted—and, at this point, had all been tainted for roughly similar lengths of time. Yet Carver, though he could hear Corypheus, had little trouble with it. Not like Anders. Not like me. “I don’t know.”

“Is it that he is not a mage?”

It was the only thing Carver did not share with Anders and I. “Perhaps,” I said, but it tasted wrong. “But…”

“But?”

“I don’t think so.” I tried to figure what else Anders and I shared that Carver did not. “He has been around more darkspawn, maybe?” It still seemed incorrect. “Anders is—vulnerable. Abomination, you know. Carver’s not.”

“And what of you? You are not an abomination.” The answer was right there, somewhere. I’d forgotten it. What was it?

“Not an abomination, no. No spirits, no demons, not even blood magic. Just me. Sometimes spirit healing, I guess, but they leave, they take nothing, they ask for nothing. I’ve always been…” I felt for the necklace I wore. It had two pendants: my Warden’s Promise and the one my reflection had given me so long ago, at the Gauntlet before the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I didn’t remember why I’d been given the second. I didn’t remember what I had looked like. “…just me.”

“I see,” Fenris said, in the way one says it when one does not, in fact, see. I stared at the second pendant like it would tell me what the secret was.

“I will be fine. Later.”

Varric clapped a hand against my arm, startling me into jumping; I hadn’t realized he was so close. “Sorry, Mittens. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He looked at Fenris, and his next words eased both Fenris and myself. “He got like this first time we were in the Deep Roads, too. Don’t worry too much; he’ll be back to normal soon as we’re out, I’m sure of it.”

I couldn’t remember the first trip to the Deep Roads in specific detail, but I remembered hating it. I remembered spiders and darkspawn and red lyrium—and the red lyrium made things hazier. But, for all the dramatizations Varric made, for all the tall tales he told, he so very rarely lied to us. Not about something like this. I believed his words and felt better for it.

Before I realized it was truly happening, Malia had broken the final seal and released Corypheus. I should have paid more attention; I should have, perhaps, followed Fenris’ advice from earlier and tried to find another way. Corypheus should never have been released, and now—now I was partially responsible. I knew the havoc he would wreak, and still I let it happen.

As it was, he spoke to us in that near-raspy voice, using words and grammars long-since abandoned by modern people, demanding we show respect, demanding we answer his questions—demanding in every breath.

I stared at him, not comprehending his words. His face, like the Architect’s, was disfigured. His entire form, in fact, was misshapen. Had the Fade rent it so? That hadn’t happened—wouldn’t happen?—to whoever became Inquisitor, whoever would walk the Fade and return again at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But what else might have torn and stretched his skin like this?

Was there something more to the Golden City, which stood blackened by the seven Magisters’ foolishness? What could it even be?

Crags of red lyrium peeked through parts of Corypheus’ body. Light from nowhere danced within these pieces, and his strange song harmonized with them and with the taint in my own blood. As if sensing this, or perhaps simply because he was able to sense me in truth, Corypheus turned his face to me and pointed one stretched claw at me. “You. Elf. Slave. I demand your service. It is my right.”

“I am no slave,” I told him. Fenris glanced to me, likely surprised it was me who was being accused of being a slave, not him.

“You lie.” He made a gesture, magical energy following its wake, and I threw shielding around myself and my friends. The blast still forced my feet backwards against the stone of his prison, but did no true harm.

“Okay, I guess it’s time to fight, then,” Malia said, before Corypheus could clarify. I knew why he thought I was a slave, though. I had no reason to know, no way to prove it, not until Solas could second my words, but I knew that it was my vallaslin. A pity he did not realize how the meaning of the vallaslin had changed in the last thousand years.

(Then again, I did not think he knew it had been so long. Not yet.)

Garrett cast a Haste spell even as Malia darted into the shadows and out of view. Fenris’ tattoos began to glow, the lyrium shining even through his clothing, catching Corypheus’ eye. Anders cast a secondary shielding spell, one that boosted my own. Varric got first blood; one of Bianca’s bolts sank into and then straight through the arm Corypheus still held outstretched. It didn’t even gain a grunt, and the blood that fell from the wound turned to demons before it reached the ground.

Normally, I might have tried to shapeshift. A mabari’s strength would surely have been useful in a fight where we had only one person who fought head-on, but I feared how my self-control would fare without the full faculties of my own mind. It was too easy to rely on the instincts I gained in animal shapes, and I could not allow Corypheus to take advantage of that.

I still joined the fray near the front. My sparring sessions with Cullen had not been for nothing, after all. With Maleficent’s shaft, I blocked a shade’s swipe, and with her blade, I struck another. My shielding kept those attacks I was not quick enough to block from being fatal, and Garrett’s Haste ensured they were few enough that I needn’t worry overmuch.

Fireballs flew overhead, and I didn’t know if they came from my friends or from Corypheus. I didn’t have the time to look. Corypheus’ shades were stronger than your average blood mage’s, and a single swipe (even of silverite) was nowhere near enough to destroy them.

Fenris planted his feet next to me, and we stood as a wall in front of Garrett, Anders, and Varric. “Duck,” he’d say, sometimes, and I would drop down; immediately after, his sword would sail through the air above me, slicing through and beating back the demons surrounding us.

Still, few dissipated from even such force. I summoned as many glyphs as I dared, but I did not know where Malia would pop up, and I could not trust that Fenris could spare the attention to watch where I placed them. When rage demons approached, only my strongest Winter’s Grasp could do more than make them scream.

Debris piled in front of us. Sludgy remains from the shades, red-hot coals from rage demons, pieces of unidentifiable armor from strange shapes I could not always recognize. Soon, watching where we stepped was as important as watching where our weapons went, and I began to wonder if the battle would ever end.

Then, suddenly, the demons stopped spawning. Fenris and I struck down the last few, and all that remained was Corypheus. He had a shield up, some spell I had never seen—it was visible and surrounded his person—but it flickered, and I felt its magic weakening.

“Anders, dispel it!” I called. I didn’t know Dispel, but Anders did—and, even better, Justice knew how to manipulate the Fade to cut off any spell entirely.

The shield vanished.

Corypheus shouted and cast out a blast of blinding energy at us, and I raised an arm to protect my eyes from its light. It was strong enough to break my shield and send me tumbling backwards—but I was enough of a buffer that Varric still got off an explosive bolt, right into Corypheus’ lower abdomen. Not as spectacular as his chest, perhaps, but with that magic throwing off any chance of aiming, it was still a good shot.

Malia, who’d been behind Corypheus and out of his sight, jumped onto his back and dug her daggers through his shoulders, down into his ribcage. He screamed, but did not yet fall. Seconds later, before Corypheus could throw Malia off, Fenris was there, one glowing arm elbow-deep in his chest. Disbelief and shock became plainly visible on Corypheus’ face, his jaw dropping, his eyes wide. I doubted he’d seen any such abilities as Fenris’ before.

Malia pulled her daggers up and out, then dropped from where Corypheus was still held up by Fenris. Only then did Fenris pull his hand out, and Corypheus dropped to the floor. He seemed dead. He didn’t move, not even to breathe, and I felt no magic pursuing him.

For the moment, I even stopped hearing his song. We’d burned the other creatures in this fortress beyond recognition. Perhaps he was truly dead, then. Perhaps we had won. I let myself believe it.

Larius stood straighter when he escorted us out, spoke clearer. But so did I; it couldn’t be terribly strange. The song had faded.

“I should thank you, I think,” Larius said, and he faced the Hawkes but his eyes traced each of us.

“Just… warn Weisshaupt, or something,” Garrett said. “I appreciate the thought, really, but I just want to get home and bathe for a week.”

Larius laughed. It almost echoed, but perhaps that was because he was a ghoul, and the taint in him echoed the taint in me. (Or was it that the taint in me echoed that in him?) “A fair statement. I shall not keep you. I must gather resources before I leave, but you have done your part.”

Garrett nodded. Malia wrinkled her nose and pointed behind us, in the general direction of Corypheus’ mangled body. “We burned everything except that one, but it has red lyrium, which is really bad, and I don’t think burning red lyrium would be good for, well, anything, so we’ll just leave that in your hands. Thanks. Bye.”

And we left.

As the fortress and all of the strange chasm it occupied fell into our past, I swore I could feel bile slide through my blood. I tried to ignore it, but I knew what it meant.

It was not finished. Corypheus would be back, as my journal foretold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional reminder that i'm still workin on getting to china (very, very, very close now, like literally weeks away, i expect to be in china at the end of the month), so updates will continue to be sporadic and slow and possibly bad while i'm prepping all my shit for that. this chapter has not been read by anyone but me at time of upload and half of it was written in a determined 'goddammit-this-is-my-day-off-i-must-get-something-done-to-show-for-it' whirlwind today, so it's.............bad. pacing is shit and most of the chapter is just passively described to all hell.
> 
> i do have Plans, though, as i said. Plans that will be better, at least in terms of they'll make for more interesting reading......................................


	39. talk it out baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M IN CHINA NOW!
> 
> actually, i've been here almost two weeks, ahaha. but I didn't have internet properly until a couple days ago, and so I wasn't able to finish writing this chapter (needed to do some research about a thing i was being finicky over). but it's done now! it's also unbeta'd bc it's been over a month and i just really wanted to get this out to you guys. sorry for the wait!

Cullen left to go to his brother’s wedding long after he should have. I saw him off at the docks, and though I was accustomed already to seeing him in the occasional casual outfit, it was ineffably strange to see him with packed bags and no armor in sight. “You’re certain you’ll make it in time?” I asked. “You didn’t need to wait until I returned.”

One side of his mouth quirked up, and he shrugged. “I’ve coin enough for a horse. If I’m clever about it, I might even arrive early. The longest part will be crossing the sea.”

I wasn’t certain about that, knowing it had taken Mia about a month just to travel from Honnleath to Kirkwall, but perhaps Cullen knew something I didn’t. Ferelden wasn’t my home, after all, but it was his. “Still. You can’t have known I would be back in time. I would have understood if you left a note with Bodahn.”

He shuffled his feet and looked away, in the direction of the ship that was still being packed and boarded. We had time yet; there was no rush. “I know,” he said, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I just… didn’t want to leave without a proper goodbye.”

It was more care than I usually gave him, on those times when my adventures (or, more commonly, the Hawkes’) took me far enough that I would not make our weekly appointment. Then again, I hadn’t traveled nearly so far as he was going now—not since we became… Were we friends? Perhaps that was what this was. It was certainly more than mere acquaintanceship. I smiled. “Ma se—thank you.”

“You—you don’t have to—you can use Elven words around me. I-I won’t always understand, but I don’t, ah. I don’t mind it.” His hand stayed behind his neck, and the other floundered around his hip like it was looking for the sword that was usually strapped there.

It was the first time I’d been given explicit permission to speak Elvish to a non-elf, and for a second, I didn’t know how to respond. My face went slack, and my heart skipped a beat. Even the Hawkes, who certainly never expressed anything other than benevolent curiosity when I slipped non-Common words in, had never so specifically said that I was _allowed_ to use them—and while I had never thought to ask for permission, never saw any need to, and rarely regretted or apologized for any Elven that I did use (what business was it of anyone else’s if I spoke my people’s language rather than Common?)…

Well, it felt nice.

“Ma serannas, ma falon,” I said, deliberately using only words he had no reason to know. He huffed a little laugh and smiled at me. It was not a large smile, not like Malia’s tended to be, nor even as large Garrett’s more reserved ones, but it reached his eyes all the same. It was such a rare thing to see; it looked good on him. I looked away so as not to stare. “I have a letter for Mia, if you wouldn’t mind to deliver it for me.”

“I’d be happy to.” He took the letter in both of his hands when I held it out. With gentler fingers than was necessary for parchment, he tucked it away into his bag, slipping it into the protective cover of a book.

“I don’t have anything for your brother’s wedding. Ir abelas.” Truthfully, I knew very little about Branson. Mia had told me some stories, little anecdotes about things he did, but Cullen only rarely so much as mentioned Mia outside of letters she asked him to give me, and never spoke of what his childhood had been like, nor of his other siblings. I didn’t have the first idea what would be an appropriate gift to send to someone I only knew the name of.

“No, it’s quite alright,” Cullen said. “You’ve never met him, so he wouldn’t expect anything of you. Nor would Mia, if that’s your concern.”

It wasn’t, not truly—had I the time, I would have liked to send something to Branson, if for no other reason than he was so important to both Mia and Cullen—but I let the words act as the comfort they were intended to be. “It’s a long journey,” I said next, instead. “Be safe.”

“I will certainly make an attempt.” His lip quirked again, but then he grew serious. He set his shoulders and looked me in the eye, brows and lips in parallel lines. “Vir’era, you should know: I do not think it’s out of simple kindness that the Knight-Commander has allowed me leave. I worry for what may happen. I cannot refuse to go now, or she will find it suspicious, and I do want to see my family again, but something is wrong, and I suspect you have a better idea of it than I do.”

I was surprised by his words, but they were true: I knew what was happening, and what was to come. I squared my own shoulders and nodded. “I can’t say much, but… yes.”

Pursing his lips, he closed his eyes for a single, drawn moment. “Then it is out of my hands. May the Maker watch over you. Be careful, and please, stay safe.”

I couldn’t tell him how unsafe things would soon be. I didn’t even know how soon it would happen—but if I was right? Cullen may not return to a whole Kirkwall. Then again, perhaps it had not been whole since the Viscount’s death. “Dirthavara: I will be as safe as I can be.”

A shiphand called for the remaining passengers. Cullen glanced at the ship, nodded, and reached one arm out to my side. There was a moment’s pause before he clasped my shoulder, like he didn’t know what to do with his hand. “Goodbye, Vir’era. I’ll be back in a couple months.”

I laid my own hand atop his and squeezed. “Dareth shiral, Cullen. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

 

Malia and Garrett, to their credit, waited a while before confronting me about how strange I’d acted in Corypheus’ prison. Carver hadn’t yet left (Leandra had convinced him to stay ‘just a while longer’), but he wasn’t present. I almost felt trapped, but Garrett handed me a cup of my favorite tea (an expensive floral one I rarely indulged in), and I lost the desire to hide things from them.

“I can’t tell you everything, you know,” I said, watching the waves my spoon made as I stirred sugar into the tea. “Some things are Warden secrets, and those aren’t mine to share. Not really.”

Around a mouthful of cookie, Malia said, “Warden secrets aren’t a Warden’s to share?”

Garrett gave her a Look and countered with, “Regardless of my dear sister’s _brilliant_ observation, we do understand. But you’ve always been… Well, we’ve noticed you get distracted sometimes. At first, we thought maybe it was a Grey Warden thing, but Anders doesn’t do it, and neither does Carver. And at the fortress…” He sighed heavily.

“Vee, my dear, dear friend,” Malia said, her mouth empty this time, “when we were at that prison, I’m fairly certain that the _only_ time you were paying attention was when we were literally fighting for our lives. And, yes, both Anders and Carver spent some time feeling under the weather, reacting to Maker-knows-what, but neither of them reached your level in the slightest. We were worried.”

“It won’t happen again,” I told them, forcing myself to make eye contact with each sibling. “There were… extenuating circumstances. Corypheus…”

Garrett wrapped a hand around my shoulder. “That’s not—we weren’t worried that you were a danger, Vir’era. We were worried that you were _in_ danger. Don’t tell us you weren’t. We all know that would be a lie.”

I wrapped both hands around the cup of tea to disguise the way they started to shake. “We were all in danger,” I murmured, “but you’re right. Anders and I, we were the most at-risk, because we are both Grey Wardens and mages—but Anders has Ve—Justice. And Justice, whatever else he may cause, whatever else he may do, he does protect Anders.”

“Wait, are you saying that Anders was safer _because_ he’s an abomination?” Malia asked. “That has got to be a first.”

I snorted, and the air caused ripples in my tea. “Ironically, yes, though he is not the only abomination I have known to exist, nor is he not the only one to maintain his sense of self. The Chantry’s teachings fall short anywhere magic is considered; you know that well.”

“Even considering that Justice was protecting him, though,” Garrett interrupted, diverting the conversation back, “I feel that Anders was still less distracted than you.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. If either Hawke was surprised, they did a good job of hiding it. I took a long drink of tea. It was brewed perfectly, just the way I liked it, right at the edge of becoming bitter. I’d kept my secret from them for six years. From how Garrett was frowning, I thought even Anders had not divulged it. Was it safe to say? Did they need to know? Would it change nothing, or would it change everything?

“Vee?” I refocused my gaze on Malia, whose frown matched her brother’s, now. “You were doing it again. Is there anything we can do to help? Anything you need? Money’s not an issue. I know you don’t—you’ve never asked us for help. But we want to help you. We’ll always help you, however we can.”

They were too kind.

I could not tell them everything. I could not even remember everything anymore—my own journal’s words confused me nearly as much as I suspected they would confuse anyone else. But they deserved something of the truth, and if I could only give them a morsel, well. I would gladly give it.

“Whatever Corypheus was, whether his words were true or not, he was undoubtably a Blighted creature,” I said. My voice started small and grew with my confidence. “And, more than that, he was—there was red lyrium within his very being. I do not have the benefit of a spirit to quiet the call of the Blight like Anders does, and nothing sings it so loudly as Corypheus did. All Grey Wardens are susceptible to this, and we mages are far more so. I don’t know why. That’s just—that’s just how it is, I think. Perhaps it’s because of our deeper connection to the Fade. I’m not a magical theorist. I’m just a healer.”

“First of all,” Garrett said, pointing a finger dangerously close to my face, “you are not ‘just’ anything. Malia and I may have saved a city, but you saved an entire country. Possibly even all of Thedas. Yes, you had help, but so did we. You’re more than you give yourself credit for.”

“Second of all,” Malia said, continuing where Garrett left off as though they’d rehearsed this, “if there’s nothing else we can do about that now, the least we can promise is to eradicate whatever red lyrium we come across, I think. I mean, it’s obviously bad. What it did to Bartrand… I don’t want to know what else it’s capable of. And if it’s even just a small fraction of what was up with you? Well. That’s reason enough.”

How they’d destroy it, I had no idea. But the fact that they had the sheer audacity to promise as much to me, knowing as I did how enormous an issue it would become in ensuing years, was all it took for my eyes to grow watery and a grateful smile to pull my lips up. “I cannot tell you how much that means to me,” I said. “Thank you, my friends.”

“You’ve done more for us over the years. It’s the least we can do to repay you,” Garrett insisted, as though I did not already live in their house and eat their food.

“Without you, Carver and Mother might have both gone to join Father and Bethany already, long before their times,” Malia said. “Anything we can do for you, we will.”

I had never doubted it.

 

“Good afternoon, Vir’era,” greeted Aveline as she walked into the clinic one day. It was unusually empty; other than myself, only Cynthia was present, carefully brewing a simple ointment over the fire.

“Hello, Aveline,” I said. Cynthia glanced up, but didn’t stop preparing the ointment. “Are you looking for Garrett? He and Anders said something about the Wounded Coast this morning.”

“Actually, I was looking for you.” She came and leaned against the pole nearest to the table. She had a funny look on her face as she stared at me, and I quelled the urge to squirm. “You and the Knight-Captain are close, right? You spar almost every week. You have to be close. And you—you do consider me a friend, don’t you? I mean, I consider you a friend.”

“Of course you’re my friend,” I told her, my eyebrows pulling together. “What’s brought this on? Has something happened with Cullen? He left to visit his family last week, but if there’s some issue, I could try and write a letter. It may reach him quickly enough.”

Aveline shook her head. “No, I’m—thank you, but that’s not necessary.” She shifted around, crossing her arms. “There is… something that happened. It’s over now, and it was a few weeks ago, so you don’t need to worry about it. But I wanted to bring it up, and haven’t really had a chance until now.”

Caught off-guard, I tried to think. The Templars and City Guard were often at odds, but Cullen hadn’t said anything about Aveline specifically when we met before he left—in fact, no one had. “Why didn’t you bring it up while it was happening?”

“You were busy with your clan,” she said, shrugging a little, “and it’s nothing terribly important. I don’t even think it was Cullen’s idea, but I wanted to get your thoughts on the matter. I’m never sure what to make of him.” The last statement had an airy, offhand quality to it. I chose not to address it.

“What was it, then?”

“Well, apparently the Templars had been worried about my methods as Guard-Captain. Something about being too soft.” She scoffed at the words, and I snorted, wondering who in the world could mistake Aveline for being soft on the guards. “Knight-Captain Cullen brought it up with the Hawkes, and they wisely chose to inform me, and later told him where he could stick those rumors.”

I could definitely imagine Malia saying things to that effect. “He never mentioned anything like that to me. I would’ve set him to rights if he did, though I doubt it would take much. He’s not unaware that you’ve been gracious in allowing us to make use of the guards’ area for sparring.”

Aveline gave me a lopsided smile, her eyes softening. “Thank you, Vir’era. I’m sure it was somehow Meredith’s influence, anyway. She’s not happy that I won’t let her Templars just have complete control. Sometimes I think she’s forgotten that her position as effective acting Viscount is meant to be temporary.”

“Sometimes, I think she never meant for it to be,” I confided, glancing around and half expecting someone to grab me up for questioning or whatever excuse Meredith would come up with. Cynthia’s stirring didn’t even waver. “I’ve tried not to exacerbate anything, but I have wondered what her goal is. What she thinks it is that she’s doing.”

“Stopping blood magic, of course; I know Merrill’s a blood mage, but I’ve never approved of that,” Aveline said, her voice lowering uncharacteristically. She glanced to the side, too. “While I don’t want anything to happen to Merrill, specifically—she’s a good person, if misguided—I agree that blood magic should be stopped. But, still, the lengths Meredith goes to… I don’t know, Vir’era. I think Anders might have a point about her driving more mages to blood magic with all her pressure.”

I nodded. The clinic was quiet enough that I knew Cynthia could hear just about everything we said, no matter how soft our voices, but I also knew Cynthia would not try to turn us in to Meredith. “I know I don’t speak of it often, because I don’t know if it’s truly my place—I’m Dalish, and I’ve never been part of a Circle—but I… well, I do agree with Anders on most things. And I am quite certain that Meredith’s incessant quest to cull all blood magic in Kirkwall has only made the problem worse, because she rules by fear and force.”

“It’s not a good look, that’s for sure.” She uncrossed her arms and came to sit in the chair near me. “Some say she’s gone mad. I don’t want to spread rumors, but I also know that there are more Tranquil in Kirkwall now than there were last year—and not just a couple more, but enough to be suspicious. Anders isn’t the only one to notice that.”

“The Rite of Tranquility was never meant to be used as a catch-all punishment, yet that is what it has become under Meredith.” Any mage who dared step out of line could be made Tranquil, now, no matter how minor the infraction. Connor, who was by all other rights a very rule-abiding person, was at a terrible risk. If his past came to light…

Well. He needed only make it through the end of the year—not even that, truly. I didn’t know when Anders would blow the Chantry, but I knew it would happen in 9:37 Dragon, and that meant it could be just about any day now.

Aveline didn’t speak for a moment. I started to fear that she would argue with me, but I shouldn’t have. “I’m worried,” she said, instead, and my head snapped up so that I could face her fully. Her lips were pursed, her eyebrows furrowed, and her hands clasped in front of her. “For all that he and I have disagreed on the role the Templars should take here in Kirkwall, it’s obvious that Cullen has been something of a mediating factor regarding the Knight-Commander. With him gone, even if it’s only temporary… Well, I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I. Cullen and I don’t see eye-to-eye on everything—he has stated his agreement with much of Meredith’s actions—but I do trust him not to take things too far, most of the time. I can’t say the same of Meredith.” Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure exactly how much influence Cullen had with Meredith—how much he’d been able to temper her tactics.

“For all our sakes, I hope he’s not gone long. The only other Templars who are willing to subvert Meredith’s orders are also the ones she trusts the least, so she wouldn’t listen to them if her life depended on it.” As she spoke, I noticed small shadows under Aveline’s eyes. I hadn’t seen them before, but maybe I hadn’t been looking. Her forehead was starting to wrinkle, too, just a little, just enough to be visible.

I covered her hands with my own, squeezing them gently. “She intends to reign by terror. We will not stand idly by, and we are not alone. Whatever happens, we must be ready.”

A small, sad smile. “At this rate?” Aveline murmured, turning her hands under mine to grasp them and squeeze back. “As crazy as it sounds, I don’t think it would be out of place to prepare for war.”

I returned the sad smile and said nothing further. The clinic was quiet but for the soft sounds of Cynthia’s knife slicing herbs.

 

Not long after that, late in the evening when I was just returning from Darktown, I felt the presence of red lyrium. I did not realize it at first, though a sense of intense discomfort slipped under my skin and made me wish to crawl right out of it. Only when it drew close enough that I started to hear its telltale voiceless singing did I realize what had happened.

My heart pounded and fingers shook as I pulled Maleficent out and started towards the source. I did not have armor on, so I cast a shield and a prayer. I didn’t know what could have brought red lyrium into the Estate, but it could be nothing good.

When I rounded the corner into the parlor to find the Hawkes and Anders, I was surprised. So were they, to find me pointing my staff at them with the apparent intent to do harm. “Vee?” Malia asked. “Are you…”

“There’s red lyrium nearby,” I said.

“Oh. Yes.” She coughed. “We were kind of hoping you might not be home.”

I didn’t speak, and Garrett intervened. “We didn’t want to worry you. There was… suspicious activity, so to speak, happening at what used to be Bartrand’s estate. Varric asked us to check it out; he wanted to bring you, but since we couldn’t be sure there wasn’t any of the idol left there, we thought it best if you stayed behind, after what happened with Corypheus.”

“And it was there,” Malia added, unhelpfully. “Or, a part of it, anyway. So, you know, it wasn’t a bad idea at first. It just took longer than expected, and there was a little thing with Varric and he’s at the Hanged Man now, or on his way, and we were really hoping you might not be home so we could destroy this without bothering you.”

“It is rather late,” Anders said, “but I know how hard it is to tell time in the clinic, and you’ve definitely stayed there longer before.”

Realizing I still had Maleficent out as if to threaten them, I pulled back and shrunk her down. There was a wad of cloth in Garrett’s hands, likely housing the red lyrium. “I see. You… you _are_ going to destroy it, though, right?”

“It’s what we’re on our way to do now,” Garrett promised, gesturing with the cloth towards Bodahn and Sandal’s room. “We didn’t want to risk whatever might happen if we smashed it to dust—normal lyrium dust is no less potent than solid blocks, after all—but Sandal may have a better idea.”

I looked at the closed door. “He is a very smart young man.”

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then, I saw that I was still standing very much between the Hawkes and the door, and I very deliberately moved aside. I watched only long enough to hear them apologize for waking the dwarves before I slipped away to my own room. I wasn’t able to sleep until the sky was starting already to lighten again, not with red lyrium echoing so close to my soul.

 

On a particularly sunny day, Merrill invited me to her home, and all but dragged me there in her eagerness. Initially, I had no idea what she could possibly be so insistent about, but when we arrived, she pulled me into the room that held the eluvian, and I knew.

It was whole again. There wasn’t any evidence of its previously shattered state—not even the smallest scratch. Whatever Merrill had done to it, however she’d repaired it… My heart stilled, and I got shivers. “I know you don’t exactly have the best memories of it,” Merrill said, fluttering between me and the eluvian, her hands alternatively wringing and reaching out to brush whichever she was nearest, “but you did ask that I come to you first, before trying to go to any bigger demons, and it’s almost done anyway, so I thought you might want to know, because it is important, and it’s a piece of our people’s past, but—ir abelas, I should have warned you first, I just didn’t want you to say no—”

I took her hand when she came near me again and she grew quiet. “It’s—I would have liked to know first, yes, but I’m not upset with you. I’m…” Scared. Of the eluvian. It was no longer Blighted, somehow impossibly cleansed of that curse, but it was still somehow intimidating to me. A broken promise that no one made. “I’m glad that you came to me first.”

It was too late, though. Marethari was already… But perhaps I could save her still. I had nearly figured out how to bring myself to a dreaming person’s mind. I hadn’t tested it yet—I needed supplies, lyrium, and a volunteer—but I was _so_ close. If I could stall Merrill from seeking that demon, Marethari wouldn’t confront her, and I would have more time.

“It’s fixed now. Mostly,” Merrill said, turning to stare at the eluvian and squeezing my hand. She sighed. “There’s no more corruption, and it’s physically intact now, but it still won’t work. It—it should be doing something. I’m not entirely sure what, but it’s not doing _anything_ , and I know that’s not right, at least.”

“Let me try something,” I said, creeping forward. The password Briala would use… I hadn’t forgotten it. “Fen’Harel’enaste.”

Nothing.

“Fen’Harel’enaste?” Merrill asked, and though I wasn’t looking at her, I could feel the confusion in her face.

“A password. There’s so much about the past that we don’t know, that we’ve forgotten… What the password means, I couldn’t possibly say.” A city elf chose it because she was enamored with the idea of the rebel-god, because someone had told her the stories in which he aided the People. “But it didn’t work, so it doesn’t matter.”

The civil war hadn’t begun yet, after all. It would be some time still before Briala learned what an eluvian could do—and its potential for her purposes.

“Do you know what it’s supposed to do?” she asked, then. “I have ideas, but nothing else.”

How could I explain what I knew? “It’s like a door,” I said. “It’s not about what it does, but where it goes… and where others like it may also go.”

“A door…” She touched the glass. It didn’t budge. “Hmm. That does make sense. So, maybe it’s just locked, then? And we need to find… a key? I don’t think slamming it would help very much. Oh! What if we knocked? Would anyone answer?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” The only person I knew to have access to the crossroads now was Morrigan, who would likely not answer a knock even at a normal house she lived in, and I doubted that eluvians worked in the same way. “Even if it’s possible, we might not want to meet whatever it is.”

She hummed again. “I’ve tried almost everything I can think of to make it work, but I didn’t think of it as something to open. Normal magic didn’t work, though, and neither did normal blood magic. I did try using a little lyrium, but it didn’t make a difference. At least, not one I could see.”

I didn’t know exactly how eluvians worked. It was one of the frustrating gaps in my knowledge—I knew only that they existed, and an idea of what they did. If only I could contact Morrigan; she might have something helpful to say. But I hadn’t heard directly from her in so long, and I didn’t know where she’d be until she joined the Imperial Court, which, like most things, had yet to happen.

“Show me what you did?” I asked, stepping back to give Merrill room.

She concentrated, then poured pure magic into the eluvian. It absorbed it all, drinking the magic like dry ground taking in water, but there was no change to its surface, no change to the lack of energy in it. Magical things should have a feeling, an aura, a _pulse_ , even, but this eluvian felt no more magical than the floor it stood on.

“The spirit…the one who taught me blood magic, that is,” Merrill said, “it promised me that it could fix the eluvian. That it has the power to, I mean.”

“Creatures of the Fade are capable of many things we aren’t.” I peered closer at the eluvian; its surface was not a black abyss, but a strangely blank grey. It did not reflect the light of the room as it should have, but it did not absorb the light, either. “I only fear what it may have asked in return for such a favor.”

“Well, yes, it did initially ask for my…body.” I spared a glance at Merrill’s words, but she continued on. “I told it no, of course. I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not. You’ve been quite safe, all things considered, but you are still using dangerous magic. It’s not you I fear, nor even is it really blood magic as an idea; it is the consequences of what may happen if you make even the slightest mistake. I feared the same when Cynthia started working with deathroot.” An exaggeration: I now trusted Cynthia completely with deathroot, because deathroot cannot bargain for itself. I did not have the same confidence with Merrill and the more intelligent demons; smart though Merrill was, she was also gullible and desperate, never a good combination in blood magic.

She may have sensed this. “I suppose. I’m glad you don’t lecture me, at least, even if you do disagree.”

“Lecturing rarely helps, and you haven’t yet caused damage that I would use it as punishment for. You know I disagree with casual use of blood magic, and I have offered to help when I can so that you do not need to use it as much.” Some might think it too lenient. Cullen would. Marethari would. But I was Merrill’s friend, not her guide or her Keeper. It was her choice, and she was hurting no one with it; so long as that remained the truth, I would live with it.

“And that’s why I came to you now.” She smiled. “Do you think if we both try, it might open? More magic certainly can’t be a bad thing, at least. I don’t have any more lyrium, though, and I won’t ask you to try blood magic. You are kind of my last hope before the spirit.”

We got to work.


	40. reasons not to lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise extra post on a non-friday bc i wanted to make up for all the many absences and slow updates i've had over the course of this installation. i estimate there'll be three or four more chapters--five at the most! this is also a long-ass chapter (possibly my longest?), coming out to almost 7k words (most of mine are approximately 5k). i hope you like it! it went through a couple rounds of revision, so i really do hope it hits home right.

There was nothing to be done for the eluvian. Merrill and I used every trick our combined knowledge could come up with—we even went so far as to smear blood in the shape of runes on the glass surface, but nothing changed. Everything was simply taken endlessly into the mirror. Not frost nor fire nor any other magic did more than what could be expected of a standard mirror, and we were too wary to hazard enough of anything which might cause true damage.

When I went home, I promised to look into it more, and Merrill said she’d like that, but we both knew what would happen next. She’d been patient for almost seven years, and had tried so many things already even before asking my help. I couldn’t provide any insight she hadn’t previously thought of.

She would be going to find the demon, so I had to break my promise.

Knowing as I did what Merrill’s plan was, I could not afford to lose any time researching a futile endeavor; I poured myself ever more into modifying and refining my own theoretical magic to one-man wrest a demon from its host. I was so absorbed in my work that most days, I didn’t even notice the passing of time; more than once, I would look up from my books and papers in the clinic to find half the cots full, with Anders and Cynthia both tending to patients I had not even known were there.

Anders sometimes peered at my work. Half of it was nearly-illegible nonsense, and the rest were diagrams annotated in elven. He frowned, but never asked much. I didn’t let him. “It’s a personal project,” I’d tell him. “You’ll see it eventually. Just wait until then, please.”

I think he recognized some of what I had modified from our adventure with Feynriel. I think, maybe, he had an inkling of what I was doing. He never said, and I never asked.

I spent less time in the Chantry. Its candles began to stifle me anytime I entered, and the stares of the priests pulled on my very soul, questions and accusations unspoken but not unheard.

“You’ve heard the Chant of Light many times now,” Sebastian said, on the last afternoon I would ever spend sitting in Kirkwall’s Chantry. I stared up at Andraste’s face as he spoke, and she stared impassively over the pews. “You’ve spent a great deal of time in the Chantry. But you never mention wishing to convert. Do you think you would be turned away?”

I turned to face him. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m not concerned with converting to Andrastianism—I am Dalish, and I do still very firmly believe in my people’s gods. That has never been a lie.”

He nodded. “I suspected as much, but I thought it wise to ask, just in case.”

“I know it’s strange,” I said, letting myself stare around openly at the features of the building, “because I’m a First, and I worship my own gods, but I come here sometimes anyway. It’s… hard to explain. There’s something about this Chantry that I—I don’t know. It’s a surprisingly peaceful place. Kirkwall has very few of those.”

“Aye. That I can understand.” He smiled and settled back on the pew, joining me in looking around, like the answer satisfied him, even if it wasn’t necessarily what he had been hoping for. “Might I ask a question, Vir’era? You needn’t answer, of course, but I admit to some curiosity.”

“Ask away.”

“What _do_ you think of all this? Do you believe any of it?”

With the knowledge I held that the Dalish gods truly did exist… It was a good question, and also a terribly difficult one to answer. “I don’t know. It’s possible. There is no reason I have seen that He cannot exist alongside the elven gods. And Andraste was certainly very much a real person; I saw her ashes myself.

“As for the rest, however? The laws the Maker supposedly handed down, and those that Andraste gave?” I waved a hand through the air. “I just cannot grasp that. The gods of my people asked for tribute, certainly, and required certain things of their devotees, but there is no evidence of a—of a Chant or a Bible or any such thing wherein all answers are meant to be found. Nor are my gods perfect and infallible; indeed, that they are gone now is proof of just how fallible they are. Fen’Harel tricked them, or something like it, and now they are locked away, unable to help the People, even as the Forgotten Ones are unable to harm.”

“But is a god not meant to be better than a mortal person?” countered Sebastian. “Is the imperfection of a god not proof that they are less than what we would have them be?”

“For some, maybe, but not for me.” I had no better answer. “There is no such thing as perfection—or, if there is, I have never encountered anything to point to the possibility of its existence. It is something to strive for, but it is not something anyone can reach. I may be the closest thing to a priest my people have, but… I don’t really care to debate the merits of either way. Religion is a messy subject, and something I tend to think of as being highly personal. You do not need to hold the same faith as me; it will not change my respect for you.”

“Wise words. I’ll leave the subject be.” He wasn’t trying to convert me, and I knew it; in my years of knowing him, Sebastian had never attempted to convert anyone who did not express an interest in the idea. For him, this truly was merely curiosity, and though he had agreed to stop talking on the subject, I also doubted he shared my thoughts entirely on the matter. But he had been a Brother, once; it was no surprise that he would be hard-pressed to comprehend the acceptance of imperfect beings as gods, just as I was hard-pressed to comprehend the acceptance of the Chant as an untampered Word of the Maker.

There was nothing wrong with either side, surely.

“I think the one thing we can agree on is this: however noble Grand Cleric Elthina’s intent,” Sebastian began, “she should express once and for all whether she supports the mages’ plight or the Templars’ rule. It’s helping no one that she continues to remain neutral.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But it does beg the question: which side would you have her support?”

He peered at me sideways, a slow smile curling his mouth. “If it were Anders or Garrett asking me—even Malia—I would feel I had no choice but to name the mages. Fenris would not even ask, but he seems to believe I favor the Templars. Most might, actually, since I _was_ a Brother of the Faith, once.”

“That isn’t what I asked, Sebastian.” Where was he going with this?

“I know.” He turned his entire body on the pew so he could face me as much as it would allow; I mirrored the movement. “You make no assumption of me like that, no demand. I know you support the mages, yet I know also that you do not hate Templars on principle.”

“I do, though,” I protested. They hurt so many people—people who had never deserved it, people who had only wanted to live like any other person.

“No, you don’t. You hate the Circle, and you hate Meredith’s cruelty, and you hate the abuse of power. You don’t hate Templars, though.”

He was right. Oh, I still saw no reason for the Templars to exist as a whole, but the intent behind their inception was a good one. Not all who joined did so for power, either. I knew at least three Templars in Kirkwall alone who proved that the Order was not made entirely of monsters: Thrask, Keran, and Cullen—elsewhere, there was Evangeline and Greagoir and Cassandra, for however much a Seeker counted. He smiled when he saw me realize this.

“For that, I feel no fear in admitting to you that I see harm and good on both sides. Blood mages _are_ a terrible and very real danger, and we have dealt with more maleficarum than should ever have existed in a just world. Yet all the same, the Templars are often too quick to judge a mage, and Meredith is the worst of all. In a just world, there would be no Tranquil. But Kirkwall has many—more than can be justified, because the Templars do not question Meredith, and she abuses her position.” He shrugged. “I do believe the Circles have a place, but I agree that they need reform. All are equal in the Maker’s eyes, after all, and I fear this has not been carried out as it should have been.”

It was more than I had dared hope for. I would likely never convince him of the necessity to remove the Circles entirely and start anew, but there was no need for that now. It was not his fight, and I doubted he would care to hear me lecture as Anders often did. There was only one thing left that I needed to know. “Could we speak somewhere private? I want to ask something that I don’t think either of us would be comfortable speaking of where any can hear.”

He tilted his head at me, but stood. “Of course, my friend.”

Once safely ensconced in his room, I nearly lost my nerve. He gestured for me to take the lone chair, and he sat upon his bed, and the scene was so familiar and comfortable that I hated the idea of what I was about to bring to it.

“What is it, Vir’era?” He never called me Vee, and while it was hardly as though I hated the nickname—it was one given in kindness, used in camaraderie—there was something so nice about hearing my name in full. Perhaps it was part of why I had been so infatuated with him.

“It’s about the Grand Cleric,” I started, testing the words against his reaction. His eyebrows furrowed, but drew up instead of down: worry, not anger. He nodded, and I continued, “You know I hold little fondness for the Chantry as an institution. You know I hate Meredith, and I have agreed that Elthina’s neutrality is useless, but there is more to it than that, I’m afraid.”

He leaned forward and nodded again. “Aye, you rarely seem to harbor distaste without reason. Or, if you do, you don’t express it.”

I wasn’t sure how true that was, but it was certainly true that I had obvious distaste for Elthina by now. “I do not think she holds her position of neutrality out of any true desire to appear impartial,” I said, carefully. “Maybe, once, it may have been true. But… Kirkwall has been without a Viscount for three years. In that time, Meredith has all but taken over, and Elthina has done nothing but watch. You surely agree with me that Meredith reaches far beyond the Templar Order’s role.”

“It does seem more as though she intends to rule Kirkwall than anything else,” he said. “I’m not sure I follow what this has to do with Elthina. Meredith has acted of her own accord.”

“True, but Elthina has said nothing to stop her. A Grand Cleric may not truly have any control over the Templars, but her words would not be ignored. Her silence on the matter…” I searched for the right words. “A wise man once said that those who look on as cruelty occurs and do nothing have as much as agreed that it is something which is acceptable to them.”

“You mean to say you think Elthina’s neutrality has aligned her with Meredith.” He wasn’t looking at me, and his words were hot enough that I could feel them on my skin. “Because she hasn’t stopped Meredith, who you _agree_ is power-mad and unreasonable, she is as much to blame.”

“No,” I said, my words rushing over each other, “and yes. It’s more complicated than that. I don’t think she could stop Meredith if she tried—Meredith is too powerful now, and too—too mad. Very little could stop her short of violent confrontation.” Little did he know, that was exactly what it would take. Or perhaps he knew; perhaps they all knew. “But she has not stated anything more than mild disagreement about how Meredith argues with Orsino.”

Sebastian was silent. Growing nervous at his lack of greater reaction, I began to ramble. “And she preaches constantly about the evils of blood magic—this is important, yes, but even I know there is much more to the Chant of Light than that. It’s generating more fear of mages, which allows Meredith’s actions to seem more acceptable, even when they’re too often anything but—and she never so much as scolds Meredith’s overreaching use of the Rite of Tranquility, nor did she listen when Leliana warned her things would grow dangerous here—to some, it might be brave of her to stay, but it seems mostly foolish to me, since the Divine herself offered the invitation, and no one in their right mind would call Kirkwall peaceful now, so no one could possibly even fault her for leaving—it seems to me she has some ulterior motive—and what does she have to lose if Meredith comes into greater power, anyway? Nothing; she stands to gain, I think. It’s just—”

“Do you even know what you are saying?” Sebastian interrupted, standing so quickly that I jumped back in my chair. He didn’t look at me, but began to pace, his hands gesturing in short, aborted movements. “Elthina is the _Grand Cleric_! She—she has taken _vows_ against such corruption! Vows to the Maker—one does not simply break those vows, Vir’era! Meredith is the _exception_ , not the standard; you yourself admitted as much. I-I cannot—surely Elthina would never do such a thing. That she should speak more, yes! That she has little control, yes! But this?”

He paused, staring at the wall with his head low and his shoulders hunched. I could hear his heavy breathing, could almost feel his tension vibrating into my own body. At any moment, I expected he might turn around and put one of those clenched fists somewhere far more dangerous—but I should not have, because Sebastian, for all his faults, has always been a good man. “Leave. I can’t… I don’t want to hear anymore. I will—I will think on your words, but you need to leave. Now.”

I didn’t say anything more as I left; my words had already done enough. I could only hope he would believe them. Any of them.

 

“Why won’t Merrill come back?” Tamlen asked me the next time I was with the clan. The question surprised me; he had never even met Merrill, to my knowledge, though her name had hardly disappeared from the clan’s lips. “Mamae said she was our First before you, but she left because she did something bad. Can’t she come back now?”

I shared a look with Mheganni. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that, Tamlen. Merrill did something the Keeper didn’t agree with, and that’s why she left. Now, most of the clan is mad at her because of what she did, so they don’t want her to come back.”

“Why?”

“Why are they mad?”

“Yeah.”

How could I explain it to a five-year-old? “Well, Merrill is a mage, like me and the Keeper. But there are some kinds of magic that are very dangerous, and sometimes very bad. Merrill decided to use some of that magic, and it scared the clan. But she didn’t stop, so they grew cross with her.”

Tamlen frowned. “Merrill did bad magic?”

“Sort of, da’len. She used dangerous magic, and sometimes that’s bad.” He continued to frown at my words, but it seemed he at least understood their meaning.

“Why?”

“Why did she use the magic?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” I said, leaning back against one of the trees near Littlefoot’s sapling, “she thought she was doing something good.”

“But it’s bad magic.”

I reached out to brush some hair from his little face. “Good people sometimes do bad things for good reasons.”

He sighed, but instead of asking why again (which I had expected), he changed the subject. “When you’re Keeper, can I be First?”

I didn’t know if it would be a blessing or a curse for Tamlen to be a mage. “We’ll see, da’len. Maybe.”

There was a beat of silence—hardly more than a second—before Pol came through the trees with his eyebrows furrowed. “Merrill just came through the camp with the Hawkes and that pirate,” he said. I froze. “They spoke to the Keeper for a second—no yelling this time—and then they started climbing the mountain. I didn’t expect to see her around here after she returned the arulin’holm…”

I stood, ice in my fingertips and chilling my toes. “Keep Tamlen safe,” I told Mheganni and Pol. They made noises of protest (probably words), but I ignored everything and simply became an owl so as to fly to the highest cave, the place where the demon had once been. I was out of time, apparently.

Wings, at least, can climb so very much faster than feet, and I had thought ahead enough to store lyrium and chalk in that cave soon after Marethari had all but admitted to me her mistake. It was not all my lyrium, and I didn’t even know if it would be enough—but it would have to be, because I no longer had time to bring more.

The base of the circle was already laid out: I knew the larger ideas with certainty, as they were nearly the same between the two spells I had researched. It was the smaller parts that I still was unsure of, the runes and the invocations. My hand trembled as I scribbled my suspicions to the floor. “June, craftsmaster, guide my hand; let this be right,” I prayed, “Mythal, protector, spare your child; let her live…”

My breath rattled in my chest. My vision blurred. I could barely force myself to stand when I finished, and I stared at the runes, at the circles and lines connecting them, at the lyrium in small piles on key points. I could hardly see any of it for the tears in my eyes, but still I hoped it would be enough. I wished for some offering to lay out for the gods—a cup of wine, some meat, anything but empty hands and empty pockets.

“Vir’era?” It was Merrill’s voice. “You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here? What’s all this?”

I turned to where her voice was coming from, but I could see little more than blobs of moving color. She was the green one. “M-Merrill… Th-the—the Kee-Keeper…”

“What about her? We saw her just before we came up. She seemed fine then, didn’t she, Bela?”

The brown-and-white shape moved to stand by the green one. “As fine as ever. Mad at you, of course, or disappointed. Maybe both? It’s so hard to tell with some people.”

“Oh, probably both.” She was so flippant about it. How could she be flippant at a time like this? (She didn’t know, of course; how could she know?)

“That’s a summoning circle.” That was Garrett’s voice. “Vir’era, what are you doing? Why did you draw a summoning circle here?”

“Th-the Keeper—” I couldn’t continue that sentence. “I-it’s not—the demon, it’s…” I couldn’t continue any of them.

Merrill came closer. I watched her shape skirt around the edges of my circle. “This isn’t a normal summoning circle,” she said. I couldn’t tell where, exactly, she was looking, but it didn’t matter; anything more than a cursory glance could say as much as she’d deduced. “It’s meant to key into…someone specific? I don’t know. Circles aren’t my area of expertise.”

“That’s a pity,” said Isabela. She was still next to Merrill, also skirting the edge of my circle. In fact, the only person to approach me was the red-and-black shape: Malia.

“Vee?” she asked, her voice quiet. She put a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever’s wrong, we’ll fix it, okay?”

She spoke as gently to me as I tried to with Tamlen. Perhaps it should have felt demeaning. It didn’t. “Th-the dem-mon,” I tried again. Nothing followed.

“We won’t let it hurt anyone. Merrill just needs to ask it a question, that’s all. Right, Merrill?”

“Something about this feels wrong,” Garrett said. “Let me just—” He cast some sort of spell; I wasn’t in the right state of mind to know what, though I did feel it wash over and around me. Perhaps Dispel or something similar. “Well, that’s definitely Vir’era, at least. We should be on our guard; if this spirit or demon or whatever it is has Vee so spooked, I don’t think we’re really in the clear.”

“It’s not here,” Merrill said.

All attention turned to her, though Malia’s hand did not leave my shoulder. “Not here?” Garrett asked.

“I-I don’t understand,” stammered Merrill. “It was _bound_ here—it couldn’t just leave! It’s supposed to be here.”

“You’re sure we’re in the right cave?” Malia asked.

“There aren’t exactly many other caves like this, Malia. I’m sure.”

“No one else knew it was here?” asked Garrett.

“Oh, the whole clan did. The Keeper warned us all to stay away when we first came. Really, she didn’t even like it if anyone went farther up the mountain at all, let alone this high up.”

“The Keeper,” I said. “She—it was—” They were just words, yet I could not force them out of my mouth. (They were just words, yet they would destroy so much once said.)

“Did she send you up here?” Merrill came to stand by me now. She sounded—I couldn’t trust my mind. I knew that. Still, she sounded so angry. “Did she ask you to get rid of the spirit bound here? She’s never understood, but that—you shouldn’t have been able to.”

Garrett came close, then, a mostly grey shape. “I don’t think he did. Look, the lyrium’s untouched. If he’d performed some ritual to banish or free the demon, wouldn’t it have all been used?”

“No, you’re right, he didn’t free the spirit. I don’t think this circle could free something, anyway. Or bind it. I’m not sure what it does, but that’s not it.”

“Then what _did_ happen to the demon?” Malia asked. “Could it have gotten out on its own?”

“No. The magic holding it here was very old, and very strong. It would have needed help. Help from someone familiar with things like that—which Vir’era is not.” I didn’t mind that they were basically talking over and around me. I was trying to steel myself for the Keeper’s appearance. “It had to have help…”

“If it didn’t get out on its own, you didn’t free it, and Vir’era didn’t free it, then who did?” Garrett asked. He probably folded his arms. I couldn’t see it, but it was something he liked to do.

“Me.”

Everyone turned to the entrance of the altar. Everyone but me, anyway; I was already facing that direction, having not moved since the arrival of Merrill and company. The tears welled up in my eyes finally spilled over, and I got a semi-clear view of Keeper Marethari as she strode forward.

She looked as regal as the day she had descended the steps into Lowtown to help with Feynriel. There was very little light in this cave—a couple braziers of Veilfire burned eternally, spreading the blue-green light across the cave in a strange simile of underwater grottos. It made Marethari look ethereal, ephemeral, evanescent; for a moment’s breath, I swore I could see a huge presence with her, but it may have been my panicked imagination, as it was gone when I looked for it.

“Keeper?” Merrill’s voice was almost as shaky as mine.

“You never did heed my warnings well, da’len,” Marethari bemoaned, and she looked—she truly did look regretful. A mourning mother. “I told you when you started on this path that there would be a price. I have chosen to pay it for you.”

“Keeper, no!”

“What are you saying?” Garrett asked, but even his voice was hardly more than a whisper. I nearly didn’t hear it over the silent screaming in my head.

Marethari ignored Garrett. “Its plan was always for you to come back. It wanted to take you, da’len. I could not let that happen.”

“What about the clan? They need you! I can handle myself!” Questions I had asked, too, though never to her face; she was always going to do this. There was nothing I could have done to convince her otherwise. My only hope laid in fixing it. Saving her.

“The clan has Vir’era now. He will lead them well.” She stopped before reaching the circle. I sobbed. How could the clan accept me if I failed today? If I failed to save the Keeper, surely they would see me as little more than complicit in her murder. If I failed—if I failed, surely I didn’t even deserve to take the title, anyway.

“Keeper, please…”

“It is too late, da’len.”

“Merrill, what’s going on?” It was Malia’s question, this time. Only Merrill, Marethari, and I knew what was happening now; how sweet their oblivion must be, compared to this.

“She took the demon. It—it’s _inside_ her now.”

“You must kill it, da’len.”

“You’ll die!”

“I know.”

“Keeper,” I whispered. Her face turned to me, the Veilfire making her eyes shine.

“Ir abelas, da’len. You were not supposed to know. I did not want to hurt you.” (It was too late for that, had perhaps always been too late, but I could not tell her so.) I reached out to her, and she stepped forward onto the circle at last. I doubted she knew what it was meant to do. The demon might not have allowed this otherwise.

I poured mana into the circle, and it began to glow. Garrett cursed and jumped away, Malia hot on his heels; Merrill didn’t move until Isabela all but dragged her off. The lyrium piles flared with bright, bright blue, drowning out the Veilfire like a bonfire overtaking candles. I stared at Marethari and prayed silently; I drained my mana and spoke the invocations I had crafted. The glowing grew until it was painful to see, but it was still less painful than the knowledge that Marethari had done this—that she had risked so many lives (Mheganni, Pol, Junar, Ineria, _Tamlen_ , all in danger because of this)—nor as much as the idea that I was not good enough to fix it.

Marethari’s shape flickered, a Pride demon forming around her, an aura from the Fade. She may have spoken. I could hear nothing beyond the roaring of my own blood, the intonation of my own voice. The room wavered. Marethari shimmered. The demon became solid, and I felt its weight shake the ground as it stepped towards me.

“Fool,” it said to me. Its voice was not a sound, but a _knowledge_ , like the words bypassed my ears entirely to manifest where I would know them even if I could not hear. My heart leapt to my throat, and I nearly choked on it. “You know not what you do, less even than your Keeper.”

I continued my invocation, and it laughed. Its amusement was acid on my skin, poison in my veins. “I could take you now. You have left yourself vulnerable.”

We were in the Fade; I knew that much. I had managed at least that, but that was only step one. Now I needed to know if I could separate the demon from Marethari—Marethari, whose form remained part of the demon, though she was not as solid as it. She was not here. Not really. But she didn’t need to be; I just needed to be rid of the demon. If I could do that—

Suddenly, I became acutely aware of how little lyrium I had with me. I had only as much time as lyrium, and half had been used to just activate the circle, to bring me here. My words faltered. The Fade swam. The demon’s laughter echoed in my skull, my ribs, my soul.

I regained control, though the demon did not stop laughing. With nothing left to do but try, I used what spare thoughts I could to send pure magic into the demon. It grunted, and its many eyes glinted at me. It did not step forward. It did not step back. In its hands, it summoned electricity; to counter, I threw up a shield.

I fired more magic at it, and it sent an orb of crackling lightning that crashed against my shield and lingered there, sparking. I didn’t dare risk walking; though this part of the Fade seemed featureless, the Fade was notoriously fickle, and I could not chance a fall. My shield drained my mana nearly as much as the sheer act of coming to this place; its attacks were powerful.

While the demon prepared another ball, I attempted a proper spell. Winter’s Grasp came so naturally to me that I did not need words for it—I had never needed words for it. Surely it would not fail me now: I called the cold and urged it to the demon.

The demon did not freeze. It was too large.

But Marethari froze, and so did I.

She was not even here in the same way I was, yet my magic reached her all the same, and it was so far from what I intended that I faltered in my words again. My magic sputtered, and my connection to the circle I’d drawn stretched thin.

Then, the demon sent its second ball of lightning, and my concentration broke. I fell back into the waking world, my knees cracking against the stone. The lyrium was all but entirely depleted, and Marethari—Marethari was no longer there. In her place was the Pride demon alone, laughing at my failure. Its voice was sound here, yet still it echoed in my hollow heart.

“Vir’era!”

“Keeper!”

“Merrill!”

“Shit!”

So much happened all at once, then. A new shield slid over me, protecting me just in time from a whip of electricity, though the pressure of that whip still pushed me back. Spells and knives flew over my head faster than I could track them. I slumped completely to the ground, and I could not move.

All I could do was watch, and hardly even that—tears obscured my vision quickly, burning hotter than the failure of my spell. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to try again. I wanted to roll over and die. These things warred in me, keeping me still. Only when a second lightning-whip crashed over my shield did the adrenaline finally kick in enough for me to roll away. I pushed Maleficent into a crack in the floor and pulled myself up; a new determination welled in me, pulled from a desperate crevice, my last reserves of strength both physical and mental.

I could not save Marethari, but I could save the clan.

With all the willpower I had, and using all the magical strength left in me, I called forth from the Veil a roiling cataclysm of spirit energy. It soared to the Pride demon like a thousand screaming birds, and for the first time, I felt I _understood_ what such a thing was—what it meant to wield the power of spirits for more than healing. I understood why Anders turned an ear so attentively to Vengeance: I understood what it meant to want nothing more than the utter destruction of something.

The demon tried to escape. Merrill thwarted it; she screamed as loud as the spell I had cast, and the ground itself catered to her whim, reaching up and ensnaring the demon so surely that it could not even struggle. I watched it die and felt nothing.

I watched it retake Marethari’s shape in death and fell once again to the ground. “Elgar’nan… I failed.”

“ _What_ did you do?” Merrill asked, her voice and confusion echoing through the cave. “What—what was this? Why would you—I don’t understand!”

“Ir abelas, lethallan,” I whispered. In the face of her emotion and mine combined, I could summon no sound, only the barest of breath. Nothing I could say would ease this pain. “I—I meant only to—I wanted to save her. The circle, it was meant to… to…”

From the shadows, Mheganni and Pol stepped forward. Mheganni’s bow was aiming at me, and Pol’s sword was drawn. “You killed the Keeper,” she said.

“Hold on!” Malia stepped forward putting herself between Mheganni’s arrow and myself. Garrett was at her side. “This isn’t exactly what it looks like. Only mostly.”

“You’re no more innocent, shem!” Mheganni’s voice was shrill, a high-pitched frenzy I had never heard from her. I had failed everyone.

“How could this have saved her?!” Merrill hardly seemed to care about Mheganni’s threat, though the bow did not point to her for even a moment. Pol’s sword, though…

He pointed it at Merrill—it became an accusation as much as a threat. “You helped him! We followed the Keeper here! She—she was acting strangely, and we were worried! If only we had come here sooner… She tried to warn you that blood magic only brings demons!”

“The Keeper _was_ a demon!” Garrett shouted. Mheganni’s arrow loosed, hitting the ground a few feet from me. I stared at it in surprise; that she very much meant her threat, I had believed. That she would miss an unmoving target from such a clear vantage? That—my mind began to stop its stutter, striding again towards cognition and function.

“You lie,” she said, but she did not so much as reach for another arrow.

“It’s true!” Malia said. Mheganni glared at her. “What? It is! I saw it myself!”

I pushed myself to stand again, and stepped to Mheganni’s arrow. From there, I could see everything and everyone: Malia and Garrett, in the center of the cave, staring beseechingly at Mheganni and Pol with hands raised and knees bent; Mheganni and Pol at the mouth, Mheganni with an empty bow pointing where I now stood (degrees and feet from where I had been, from where the Hawkes now were), and Pol with his sword held in a shaking hand towards Merrill; Merrill, whose face was streaked with tears, and who was only being held up by Isabela’s arms, her attention still on the slain form of Marethari; and Marethari, dead now but elvhen once more, lying still upon the stone, frost clinging to her skin…

I had failed. I wanted to hide away, to not face anyone in the room, to let them figure it out amongst themselves, but I was the only one here who could walk through the clan and Kirkwall both. It had to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong.

“I failed as First,” I said. My voice was quiet and raspy, and at first no one heard me. I struck Maleficent upon the ground and let a dampened Mind Blast amplify the effect of the sound; when everyone’s attention was once again upon me, I restarted.

“I failed.” I met Mheganni’s eyes. She deserved to know what I did after how I had disappeared. “As First, it is my duty to protect the clan, and none is so important to protect as the Keeper. I came here to do as much today, and I failed.”

I looked to Pol, who had come so far with his trust and his habits. I couldn’t explain fully it in words familiar to him, but I could try. “The circle upon the ground is not blood magic. It is elven, and Circle, and a desperate attempt that did not work.” My eyes slid to Merrill, who had the best chance of understanding. _Mythal, let her understand. Ghilan’nain, bring me the words I need._ “It was my work, modified from what was used when we went to the Fade to save Feynriel three years ago, and supplemented with a similar ritual that I saw used during the Blight seven years ago.

“Keeper Marethari came here. I don’t know when.” My gaze went back to Mheganni, then to the floor. I should have known. I should have been paying attention. “She—she wanted to—she said she wanted to help Merrill. The demon here… She worried that it would possess you, Merrill. So she gave herself instead. She didn’t tell me, not—not specifically—but I knew.

“She said she was going to die soon. That—that I’d make a wonderful Keeper. That she’d done something terrible. And I-I just—I had to try to help. I’ve been—I’ve been trying to make this, to get this right, this circle. F-for Anders. He doesn’t know. I just thought, maybe… B-but it failed. I couldn’t save her. I’ve—I’ve never saved anyone. She and Littlefoot both died because of me. A-and now… The clan deserves better.”

I stared at the floor. I couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and they felt like weights on my shoulders, dragging my posture and pride low.

“You’re wrong.”

The statement was surprising, but ever moreso because it came from Pol. I was shocked into looking up at him. He sheathed his sword and met my eyes without fear. “You’ve saved plenty of people. You saved me from the varterral. You saved Feynriel from slavers and from himself. He never let anyone else forget it, so you’re not exempt.”

“You saved me,” Malia added. “Plenty of times over the years; enough that I can’t count them. And Garrett, too. More times, probably.”

“And Mother,” Garrett said, for once not even rolling his eyes at Malia’s jab. “Without you, we may have been too late to save her. And you even helped Carver—I think he’s happier as a Grey Warden than he ever was in Lothering.”

“You’ve saved our arses more than once, too,” Isabela said, gesturing at herself and Merrill.

Merrill nodded. “Even in the Fade,” she murmured, her voice wavering in sync with my nerves, “when we were trying to save Feynriel, you had the time to save me. And you did try to help me with the eluvian, even though it—it brought back bad memories for you. You didn’t fail. No one did.”

“No.” Mheganni’s statement, so flat and loud, drew all eyes to her. Her bow had been lowered to her side, and she was staring at Marethari’s corpse. For a second, there was no emotion; then, she, too, began to cry. “The Keeper failed. It is a Keeper’s duty to keep the clan safe. She—she let herself become possessed. She became a danger to the clan. _She_ failed _us._.”

Merrill sobbed and held tightly to Isabela. “Why didn’t she ever listen?” Isabela murmured in response, but I couldn’t hear. I hadn’t—I hadn’t… Mheganni wasn’t wrong, and it killed me. I had known, had perhaps thought as much myself, but for it to be stated so bluntly—my heart clenched.

“She thought she knew better,” I said, and I took my first careful steps toward her body. Merrill mirrored me, and we met and knelt there together. “I think she forgot what it means to be Keeper.”

“The clan is greater than any one of its members.” Merrill reached out and brushed away a loose strand of hair from Marethari’s face. It’s a cliché, but it was true: Marethari finally looked at peace in death. Perhaps she was.

“We should go,” Mheganni said. She didn’t approach, but she spoke just loud enough to hear. “The clan will… they will wonder what happened.”

“What will we tell them?” asked Pol.

We couldn’t tell them the exact truth. They would never forgive Merrill, never forgive me—and that was not something I could live with. I swallowed hard. “We’ll tell them we ran into trouble. The Keeper came to help, because she was worried, and she died protecting us.”

“It’s close enough to the truth,” Malia noted, her voice just shy of its usual sarcasm, though the words certainly weren’t. “It shouldn’t even be hard to sell.”

Pol all but appeared next to me. “I can carry her,” he offered, and I only nodded. Merrill and I helped him to pick her up, and we left the cave. The ice that clung to her from my spell chilled my hands. I wondered how long they would take to regain warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i now feel safe to announce the title to the fic which will follow after kirkwall and bring us up through to the breach: _Keeper_. i am sorry for those of you who'd been hoping i would save marethari: it was never in the cards, and while i tried not to lead anyone on about that, i also didn't want to give any spoilers. there's a few reasons why she dies here as in canon, and if you want a full list, i'm happy to provide (or, as much as i can without delving once again into spoiler territory).
> 
> that said: it's not for shock value or to try sticking closer to the canon lines or anything like that. mostly, it was to get vee to where he is now--but some of it, i'll admit, is my personal issues with her actions, which are mentioned in passing via vir'era's inner monologue and mheganni's words.


	41. revelations and revolutions

We buried Marethari near the center of our camp. Junar and Ellana brought a dahlamythal sapling to the site, and I called upon what nature magic I knew to encourage the young tree to take to the ground. We sang In Uthenera, and began to mourn.

Merrill stayed for the funeral. The clan, whatever issues they had with her, allowed that much. No one could deny how important Marethari had been to Merrill, even though they had fought more often than not.

Tamlen was uncharacteristically somber. He didn’t speak as we laid Marethari’s body into the ground, nor as we covered her in dirt and tree. He didn’t sing—but perhaps he was too young yet to know the words. He stood at Ineria’s side and held her hand and barely so much as cried.

Speaking to anyone was hard. I couldn’t tell the truth, not really. They weren’t likely to believe me if I did, and I couldn’t possibly let them endanger themselves. They _needed_ me, needed someone to take over as Keeper—and they had no one else. I was the only mage left in Clan Sabrae, and I was the only one trained even remotely in such a role.

For the first week, I didn’t leave the camp at all. There was much to be done and arranged in the wake of Marethari’s death, and I had no time to contemplate returning to Kirkwall—even with my shapeshifting, traveling to and from the city would take time. There were too many questions, too many tasks.

First order of business: finding halla. Other than Edelweiss, Clan Sabrae had no halla; those that had survived the journey across the Waking Sea had died soon after of some illness. Marethari had been attempting to acquire more halla for the clan, but she had obviously been rather preoccupied, and while she had correspondences with a few clans, she had not followed up on any.

I sent Fenarel and Mheganni east, to Clan Lavellan. They’d sent a letter recently saying they could spare us three halla. Mheganni was resistant about leaving, but other than Maren, she was the best with animals. I wanted to ensure the halla Clan Lavellan sent would be happy and safe, and we could worry about more halla later—preferably after we had returned to Ferelden. I would have sent Maren, but she was not so well-trained in fighting.

I made it very clear that I had no intention of staying in the Free Marches. “There is something sinister brewing in the shemlen cities,” I told the clan. “It will not be safe here. It may not be safe anywhere, but we know Ferelden far better than we know the Free Marches, and I have connections with shemlen there who can help us.”

The King and Queen, for example. (Oh, certainly, I knew the Champions of Kirkwall, as well, but they held little political sway even now—and would hold less in the coming months.) Plus, I myself was a Champion of Redcliffe. Perhaps I could collect on that title.

Therefore, it followed that the second order was to plan where we would go. The Brecilian Forest was mentioned—after all, it is where Clan Sabrae had been last, and that was years ago—but retracing our steps so directly, even after more than half a decade, felt unwise. I shied from the words, and to my surprise, received little more than token arguments.

“Orlais is unstable now, and will no doubt soon turn to war, but until that time comes, we may be safer to divert our route through the Dales, first.” On the sole world map the clan had, I traced a finger along the lands the shemlen called the Exalted Plains. “There are a few clans who still wander that area, and I do not know how aware they are of the shemlen war that is brewing. I would warn them so they have the time to leave, if they so wish.”

“They know the dangers of remaining so close to the Orlesians, Keeper,” Hahren Linara said. “It is not your duty to remind them.”

“Perhaps not,” I agreed, “but I would warn them all the same. There are not so many Dalish that we can be safely callous about those in danger. The lives of all are important, and I cannot justify doing nothing when I have the opportunity to do something.”

Linara did not argue further, but the frown did not leave her face. She accepted my role in the clan for now, but perhaps that was because there was no alternative. If she chose to leave the clan for one more suited, I would not protest.

I gave our hunters the task of getting as much food as they could. All excess meat was to be made into jerky; any excess hides, bones, or other salvageable parts were to be brought into the city to trade for flour and metal. Pol and I were the faces there, since we were most familiar with shemlen methods, but Master Ilen and his apprentice had some experience, as well, with what few humans ever dared come close enough to attempt trading with the clan.

Ineria and Hahren Vinell led the group I sent foraging. Anything edible that they could scrounge up, we would make use of. Nuts could be steamed and stored away; seeds would keep well; berries could be mashed and made into fruit leather or bramblewine, both which would save far better than the berries themselves.

Ellana, it turned out, was second only to Master Ilen himself when it came to repairing aravels. She was nothing by trade, as I understood it, but rather whatever the clan needed her to be whenever they needed her to be such. This meant she spent most of her time foraging with Ineria or cooking with Hahren Paivel.

However, after so long since they had last been moved any great distance, the aravels were in sore need of a careful hand to ensure they would last the journey, and since Ilen had his hands full ensuring what the hunters brought back could be made into things we could trade (and then trading said things), this duty fell to Ellana. She was far from upset, to her credit.

There was, of course, a small ceremony to be had that would officially instate me as Keeper in the wake of Marethari’s death, but with everything else that needed doing, and all my worries about those still in Kirkwall, I hardly thought about it. Hahren Paivel, though, did not forget—nor did he let anyone else. He and Variel spent a great deal of their spare time preparing for the ceremony, though I insisted they not put it ahead of their duties for preparing the clan’s move.

With everything, I didn’t even leave the clan’s central camp for three days, and it was a week before I finally returned to Kirkwall. I was alone for this first trip into the city, as a week was not enough time to gather and prepare enough items to sell or trade. The hunters had some initial success, yes, but two deer and four nugs leave little behind that can be repurposed in any way that shemlen would appreciate. I brought nothing along.

Normally, I would have gone straight to the clinic when returning from the clan. But this time, I went instead to Merrill’s home; luck was with me, because she was in, and I did not have to search her out.

“Vir’era!” she said. “Come in, lethallin. Oh, ir abelas. I suppose I should call you Keeper now, shouldn’t I?”

I shook my head. “No, you don’t need to. You’re my friend.” I stepped inside, and the door closed with the conversation. What should I say? What _could_ I say? Nothing could make right what went wrong.

“Ma serannas,” Merrill said. I almost didn’t register the words; they were entirely unexpected. “For—for trying. To save the Keeper, I mean. Marethari. You didn’t have to. Mheganni wasn’t wrong. She… What she did was stupid. It could have really hurt the clan. It put them in danger.”

I couldn’t disagree. Marethari had her reasons, and she’d certainly thought they were worthy reasons—she had loved Merrill, in some fashion, even if she had disapproved so much—but what she did was… It was wrong. There were other ways. She should never have allowed herself to become possessed. “Of course I tried. I—I only wish I had succeeded. I was so _close_ , but I—ir abelas, lethallan. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t had the time to return to the cave, to examine my circle’s remains and see what mistake might have caused such a failure. I needed to. If I was going to save Anders, I could not make the same mistake again. I could not afford it. No one could.

A beat of silence. Merrill walked to her stove and put a kettle on it, lighting the logs with a small flare of fire. “You said it was for Anders, right?”

I continued to hover near the entry, not entirely sure of my welcome. “Yes. And Justice. It’s not—it’s not good for them, either of them, to be connected like that. It’s…” Corrupting them. Changing them. Altering the very core of their beings. “…it’s not good.”

Merrill took out two mugs from her cupboard and a box of tealeaves. I recognized the blend, even from this far: a Dalish style, one Hahren Paivel often prepared when all the ingredients could be found, with a few varieties of berries. The Free Marches had plenty of berries; that Merrill could have reproduced it did not surprise me. “I’ll admit I’ve never been very good at circles. Or glyphs. Even before I learned blood magic, I mean. I don’t suppose you want to try blood magic?”

“I don’t want to involve any spirits or demons not already involved if I can avoid it,” I said, instead of saying that I had no intention of ever learning blood magic. (Well. No blood magic of the sort Merrill practiced.) “It does involve going into another person’s mind, and that’s—well, I’m sure you understand my caution.”

“Yes, you’re probably right. It wouldn’t do to tempt fate like that.” She poured a carefully-selected portion of tea into the kettle, then picked a few extra berries to drop in, too. “But you can look at the books the Keeper has—had—well, you’re Keeper now, so I guess it _is_ has again… Um, anyway! You can look at the books, and maybe they’ll be more help. I don’t think I will be much.”

I’d forgotten about the books. I knew which one held the ritual Marethari had used for Feynriel—and, on top of that, I now had unrestricted access to the book she’d asked Pol to find. I just… needed to go into her aravel, first.

No one had done that yet.

Either way: “That’s not why I’m here, you know,” I said, still at the doorway, twiddling my hands to give some outlet to my anxious energy. “I… I wanted to…” And that was just the crux of it, wasn’t it? I wasn’t entirely sure what I could do, now. I’d love to invite her back. I wanted her in the clan, but the others would not stand for it—except Mheganni, and maybe Pol or Ellana—so I could not. I huffed, and admitted, “I don’t know. To see you. Are… are you alright?”

Merrill sighed, but turned to face me again. “No,” she said. “I’m not. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand why… why she did it, you know? There’s so much about her I never understood, that I’ll never get to understand. But I’m not angry.” She pushed some hair back and leaned against the wall by the stove. “I wanted to be, I think. I thought I should be. But not with you. None of this was your fault, Vir’era. It’s mine and Marethari’s. My fault for causing a mess, and hers for making it worse. You just tried to help.”

“I killed her.” I’d killed many. I had never regretted it. Most of the time, I had no reason to. But with Marethari… “I wanted to save her, and I killed her.”

“No, lethallin.” She sounded so certain; an earthquake would not shake her words. “She killed herself, and used you to do it. If it had not been you, it would have been me.”

“But—”

“She knew, the second she let herself become possessed, that she would die. It’s the one thing the Chantry and the Dalish do the same: abominations like that are killed. They’re too dangerous to let live.” The kettle began to whistle, and she motioned for me to take a seat at her table. It was the same table as had been in the house when she moved in six years ago, though there were new stains.

Merrill was right, of course. There was no possible way that Marethari had not resigned herself to death when she took on the path she’d chosen. When she decided to house a demon, as if it was the only answer to the problem at hand. That didn’t mean it felt good; that didn’t mean I did not regret what happened. I should have been able to stop it.

A mug, fragrant with the smell of berries and an underlying warmth that elfroot always had, was placed in front of me, and I wrapped my hands around it. It was almost too hot to touch, but the heat grounded me, distracted me from the thoughts of my failure.

“She didn’t pay any price for me,” Merrill said. I glanced up to see her sitting across from me, and wondered how long she’d been there. “She said she did, but she didn’t. I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t have let the demon possess me or anything like that. What she did—she…” Merrill sighed again and looked off down the hall, where the eluvian doubtlessly still stood in her room. “She chose the price I was to pay. She chose herself and the clan, and if you hadn’t—if you hadn’t been there, hadn’t tried to save her—I don’t know what would have happened, exactly, but I know I would have… I would have had to kill her. She chose to die, and she used us for it.”

I wasn’t sure Marethari had truly chosen that. I really did think she’d had only the best of intentions, however strange her interpretation of them, however poorly thought-out it had ended up being. More than that, I knew I would never convince myself that I had been anything so small as the weapon Marethari used to take her own life. Perhaps Merrill needed to think that; perhaps it was the only way she could rationalize this, the only way she could live with it.

But I could not. I would have to live with the fact that I killed her when I had meant to save her. The demon may have forced my hand, but it was my failure that ensured her death, not her own actions.

I should have been able to save her.

 

The conversation I had been dreading came that very night. I sat in a chair by the library’s fireplace at the Hawke estate, not long after I had believed everyone else to be in bed. I would have gone, too, except Ser Pounce-a-Lot was asleep in my lap, and I was loathe to disturb him.

Anders came around into the room and took the seat across from me. For a moment, he said nothing of note, and we sat in peace, each to our own thoughts. Then, he said, “You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you? If anything happens, that is.”

I glanced up, but Anders was staring at Ser Pounce-a-Lot, who hadn’t even woken at his person’s voice. My immediate reaction was to reassure him, but then the words began to reconcile with what I knew, and the scene turned on its head.

Anders wasn’t wearing anything out of the ordinary. The coat he had come here in still clung to his body, though it was threadbare and stained; he had long refused to purchase a new one, and every last coin he obtained was spent on things for the clinic. If not for Garrett, I wasn’t sure he would even eat, but Garrett took care of people well; Anders, while still a thin man, did not look borderline starved. He almost looked healthy.

But my mind overlaid a very different image of Anders: one whose black clothing matched the circles under his eyes and the shadows in his cheeks, whose hair was dull and so fragile a breeze could steal strands, whose ink-stained hands shook with hunger and anger in equal measure, and I wondered how close we had come to that reality.

I thought of my failed circle and of the books I had yet to enter Marethari’s aravel for, and of the large box of lyrium I had hidden beneath my bed in this very house. Perhaps it was not something he had yet done, but I knew he would soon offer his singular childhood comfort to Varric, for a dead man needs no keepsakes, and I knew then what I had been missing—or, one piece that would fix the puzzle.

In the moment, though, my hesitation to speak revealed a great deal. Perhaps my expression did, too; I don’t know what face I made as I stared at him, but Anders regarded me with shrewd, narrowed eyes. “You know something, don’t you?” he asked.

My gaze skittered to the fire, then to the cat, then back to him. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I don’t have many other options. Someone has to make them listen. This one—causes the least harm.” He didn’t move, didn’t bat an eye. The Fade stretched around him; Vengeance was listening closely. If I was not careful, it would soon be Vengeance across from me.

“You don’t need to kill to make them listen,” I tried.

“Do you really think Elthina would ever come around?” he countered, not even a moment’s hesitation stalling the words. “Because if so, Maker, I’d be happy to try that.”

I looked away again. Unlike him, I did pause. “No,” I said, eventually. “She won’t see our side. She never would.”

I heard him sigh. “That’s what I thought. I don’t—you need to understand, I don’t _want_ to do this. It’s not—it’s not a good thing. But someone has to do it. Someone has to make that stand. And if no one else will do it, then it has to be me. We can’t wait any longer. Mages have suffered for too long already. There is no better option.”

Perhaps I should have argued with him. His plans were those of a madman, and without interference, they would cost the lives of—well, I wasn’t sure. Too many to let him remain innocent. Too many, even, to think that I, a known friend, would avoid judgement. There was very little I could do at all, and nothing I could think of that would stop him.

Some things were fixed points, after all. Some things never changed. Turning my head, I made sure he looked me in the eyes. His were golden in the firelight.

“Let me help you,” I said, and my voice didn’t waver.

His did, though. “No. I can’t. You’ll be in trouble enough for even knowing me.”

“Anders…”

“You’re a Keeper now, right? A leader?” He clutched his hands together, his elbows on his knees. “You can’t help me. Your clan needs you. You need to stay as far from what I’m going to do as you can. The Dalish have enough trouble.”

He was right—but I was stubborn.

“Then promise me one thing instead: you will give me warning, and you will give me time. Let me empty the Chantry as much as I can. Let me save those who will allow it.” Elthina wouldn’t leave. No matter what I told her, I was certain she would do little more than laugh in my face (even if only metaphorically). But the others? Perhaps I could convince some to leave. If even five people got out in time, it would be worth it.

Anders stared at me. He made no great expression—not shock nor disagreement nor anger—just a long, contemplative stare. The firelight flickered, Ser Pounce-a-Lot stretched, and I felt for a moment that I could see a looming presence over Anders’ shoulder, just a flicker of a form in the faded furniture, but perhaps it was only my imagination. (Then again, perhaps it was Justice, in whatever amount he could still reach the mortal realm without full command of Anders’ body.)

“Fine,” he said. “But I can’t guarantee long. Whatever you do… you’ll have to be quick.”

 

I left Kirkwall again the next day, despite originally having intended to stay longer. But I had a new piece to fix my mistake, now, and with Anders’ words, I knew I did not have long to enact it.

I stopped at the clan first. They didn’t need my direct oversight for everything, but I felt better seeing the progress that was made—though there was admittedly little significant difference after just one day.

Marethari’s aravel, when I entered, was much as I remembered it, if rather more cluttered. No space was wasted or left wanting; by the door hung dried-or-drying herbs that wafted a chaotic aroma through the whole space, shelves all around held bottles full of spices and ingredients (arranged behind bars and with padding so none would break), the cabinets opened to reveal a few sets of clothing (both winter furs and summer cottons) as well as stacks of books and parchments, and the lone low-set desk (made such that one could sit on the floor to write) had reams of both paper and parchment alongside inkwells and brushes and wax and a beautiful stamp.

The last two surprised me, actually; I had never seen any letters written to or from the Keeper, but the stamp was well-worn and the wax had drips down its side from use. It was less surprising when I found that the stamp’s crest was the same as the few flags the clan flew: a halla. Perhaps this had been passed down among the Sabrae clan since the time of the Dales, used only for important letters.

I took a long moment to simply admire all the things in her aravel. Perhaps it was time I moved in; as it stood, when I slept with the clan, I shared an aravel with a few of the other unbonded men—like Pol and Junar. No one had protested as I continued to do that, but it would seem a waste to have a Keeper’s aravel with no one using it.

But I could worry about that later, and I could figure out what to do with Marethari’s more personal effects later. First, I needed to find those books.

The pages detailing Feynriel’s ritual were easy to find. The book Pol had been sent for, though, was not with the other books. Nor was it with the small stack by the bed, nor those few books scattered around the other shelves in the aravel. My heart started to quicken; what in the world could Marethari have done with that book? Why would she have hidden it?

(Of course, it was hardly full of benign things; much of it held information that was a half-step from blood magic and a hair’s breadth from outright danger.)

I checked the book cabinet again, looking over every spine and moving everything in my search. I tried not to be hasty, but worried nonetheless that Marethari herself had not been the one to request the book—and if it was the demon who had wanted it, if it was the demon who had placed it somewhere new, I may not be able to—oh!

Nearly unnoticeable, in the dark recesses of the cabinet, there was a latch. I reached out slowly, building the courage to open it. The book might be there—but so might any manner of other things. Marethari, though she had cared for her clan, was not a saint. She’d owed a favor to Asha’bellenar, and who knew what else she might have done in her years?

A gentle tug did little more than produce a hollow sound. This hidden compartment was sturdy. Most things were, in an aravel. The road was long and hard, and things couldn’t be allowed to shift too much. I tugged gradually harder, and when I reached about half my strength, it finally loosened and came out—it didn’t swing open or slide in a direction, but came completely away from the back of the cabinet, and the sudden lack of resistance almost toppled me onto my ass.

I swallowed hard and stared at the loose wood, which still blocked my view of the compartment. There had to be a reason Marethari had hidden these things away. Perhaps I should put it back and resume my search elsewhere.

I put the plank on the floor next to me.

Inside, there were a few things. The locket that Asha’bellenar had sent with the Hawkes caught my eye first, shiny and far better-kept than I would have expected of something so hidden-away. Beside it were a few trinkets whose importance I could not guess, including a bone carving of a halla that was so intricate, so beautifully detailed, it almost looked alive. At the back of the compartment, though, was the very book I’d been searching for.

My whole body relaxed, then grew tense once more; why had Marethari hidden this where it was so unlikely to be found? What did it have to do with the other things there? I sent out a careful tendril of magic, searching for any magical traps, and found none. If there had been physical traps, they surely would have been attached to the false back (and perhaps I should have thought of that before tugging it out, though nothing had happened.)

I did nothing for a long moment, but my curiosity soon got the better of me, and I did still need that book. With a slow, barely-trembling hand, I took hold of the book and pulled it out. A small amount of dust floated off where my fingers touched. How long had this been hidden?

The cover was the same as I remembered. I brushed more dust from it and opened it, intending to start skimming from the beginning, in case there might be any information I did not have before that I would need now.

I stopped before I turned the first page, though.

There, just inside the cover of this book, was a letter addressed to me. It was folded in half just the once, and my name was written in large, clear hand on the center. This was Marethari’s handwriting. Whatever was in this letter… I didn’t linger on the thought. I unfolded it and began to read.

 

_Vir’era,_

_If you have found this, I am already dead—and if I am not, you must kill me._

_Ir abelas, lethallin. This book was the last thing I needed to confirm what I already knew. Tonight, I will go to the top of the mountain. The demon there would use Merrill to come into our world, and through her, it would cause ruin. Her intent is good, but she is too naïve. It is my fault; I did not impress upon her the necessity of taking great care when asking for help._

_I have made similar mistakes in my past, but I was lucky. They did not cause so much harm as to bring the death of everyone and everything. Perhaps that is because I did not deal with demons, though shemlen are often just as fickle. Once, I asked Asha’bellenar for aid, and in return, I owed her a favor. I still do not know the result of that favor; I understand that she used it to extend her life in some manner, but what that means… Asha’bellenar is a mysterious force. My debt to her is paid, but what it has cost the world remains to be seen._

_I will spare Merrill this fear. I will take the demon into myself, so that it cannot take her, and I will die for this. I can do so peacefully, knowing that you will be here to lead the clan in the wake of my death. You will be a good Keeper. You and I may not agree on everything, especially where Merrill is concerned, but you have a good head on your shoulders, and I believe you will do right by the clan._

_I hope you will forgive me someday for laying this burden on you. Ir abelas, Vir’era… Ma serannas; you have given me peace in knowing the clan will be safe when I am gone._

_May the Creators look more kindly on you than me; Ghilan’nain bless your path; Mythal protect you; and may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent._

_Marethari Talas Sabrae_

 

She had written this months ago. She had resigned herself to death months ago—possibly longer. She hadn’t known I would try to save her, though. She thanked me in the letter, but I could not… Nothing in this letter said anything I hadn’t known or suspected, except that she had, apparently, last been fully herself only just after I brought her this book.

I wasn’t sure what to feel about that.

I put the letter and the book down. I needed… A moment, perhaps. Distance through time, so that I would not feel so—so—her presence was too close with that letter. I couldn’t open the book. I just couldn’t.

Instead, I picked up the locket. It was so much smaller than I remembered. In my mind, I always thought of it as something the size of one’s palm, heavy and cumbersome and difficult to lose, but it was none of these things. It was hardly even noteworthy, except that it was the locket Asha’bellenar had once used to house a piece of her soul, just in case Morrigan managed to convince us to murder her.

(We hadn’t, and yet…)

The locket itself was perhaps the size of my thumb. Well, one knuckle of it, anyway, and it felt almost fragile. That may have been my imagination, overlaying my expectations of something more fitting of a lock than a locket. There was a simple halla-head etched onto the surface, and though it was neither perfect nor professional, it was still beautiful. Master Ilen had not done it, I was certain of that much.

I opened it. Perhaps I had no right, but Marethari was dead, and she had no children, no siblings or nieces or nephews in the clan. I knew too little to say if her birth clan had been different—I knew only that she had no kin here; the clan in its entirety had been her family. Merrill was the closest she’d come to a daughter.

Inside, there was a tiny painting. It looked like vallaslin ink had been used, though without blood to thin it, its pigments did not cake and flake, but rather clung to the fabric stuck there. The man depicted was unfamiliar to me, but he was Dalish. His vallaslin and face had been lovingly brushed to life with a soft smile.

This was almost certainly Marethari’s husband, dead long before I had come to the clan, and perhaps even before I had been born. This locket had never been Flemeth’s.

It had been Marethari’s.

Where Flemeth got it, I’d likely never know. Marethari had never told anyone much of what her deal with Flemeth entailed, or how it had come about. I doubted Flemeth had asked for that locket specifically, though. It just seemed unlikely—about as unlikely as Marethari choosing it to give for her payment.

My heart clenched, and I put it back. If I was right… I picked up the book and replaced the false backing. I needed to see my circle. I needed to make sure I could save Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is mostly fallout from last chapter, but next chapter... well, i'm pretty sure you can tell what's coming up. i predict two or three more chapters total, plus a possible epilogue.


	42. do they even have the word bomb in thedas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re:chapter title: i'm somewhat serious tbh lmfao. like. do they?? p sure they don't. shit's fucked up either way

I almost forgot about the ceremony that Hahren Paivel and Variel insisted on. “It’s not going to be perfect,” Hahren Paivel told me, his eyebrows drawn, “but it is a tradition, and I’d rather we at least tried than if we did nothing. You deserve that much.”

Frankly, I couldn’t say I agreed entirely. My further research on the ritual I’d attempted was proving to be quite telling already, and it seemed to indicate that I had been hasty and underprepared; multiple mistakes within the runes had already shown, and though they did little more than cause the lyrium to dry up faster… Well, it was a situation where I should have ensured I had no mistakes. Not even ones that wouldn’t have caused what happened.

“Normally,” Variel said, continuing on what Paivel had been saying, “Master Ilen would craft a new staff for you and present it during the ceremony, but since he’s so busy now, we’ll use Marethari’s staff until he has the time to make a proper one. Arshil will make your Keeper’s ring, though, so expect him to come and ask you to tell the story of the Dread Wolf’s betrayal soon.”

“Ellana may be with him,” Paivel added. “Ilen trusts her instincts for people more, even though he likes Arshil’s carving better. It has to look right, and it has to suit you.”

On top of that and helping wherever needed for foraging, hunting, or food-prepping, the two had also apparently taken it upon themselves to make me some other Keeper’s clothing, too. The Dalish clothes I had were sufficient for traveling or hard work, they said, but a Keeper needed proper robes. None would be as elaborate as the ceremonial set Marethari had given me, at least.

“Well, for now,” Paivel said. “You will need a warmer ceremonial set for winter celebrations, but that can wait, as can the things you will need for specific ceremonies.”

What I’d had for Pol’s vallaslin-tattooing was, of course, the most basic thing possible. At least it wasn’t as overwhelming as I understood shemlen court fashion to be; two sets of ceremonial robes with alternating accessories based on the occasion was far easier to manage than entirely different outfits for every possible event. Then again, that could be just out of necessity; while aravels could carry far more than their appearance might suggest, they also had ultimately limited space, and superfluous items could not be allowed to accrue.

Amidst it all, I found the time to send a letter to Arl Teagan.

_Arl Teagan,_

_It has been some time since we last had any correspondence. I hope this letter finds you well._

_Due to a series of events whose details I shall not bore you with, I have recently become the Keeper of my clan, Clan Sabrae, and we will be moving south not long from now. While I intend to start in Orlais, I would greatly appreciate it if, after our business there has concluded, you might allow us to stay a time in Redcliffe. I know it is uncommon for Dalish to acknowledge human land ownership when passing through, but since we are on good terms, I do not wish to cause any trouble that can be avoided._

_I can attempt to simply pass through your lands to those near Ostagar, which King Alistair so graciously gave my people, but my clan will be tired from the journey, and we have children and elderly folk with us. We would be very grateful to spend time in Redcliffe, and if you allow it, we would even happily trade with you. I do not know what a human city may want, but as our craftsmaster assures, Dalish crafting is second to none._

_I hope to build a better relationship between my people and yours; this will take time, perseverance, and no small amount of trust on both ends. As a Champion of Redcliffe, I would not allow my clan to cause any trouble to your city or lands. I only hope you will allow us the chance to prove it._

_May you remain in good health,_

_Keeper Vir’era Sabrae_

 

My conversation with Ellana and Arshil was… well. They asked me to recount the tale, and I did. Then they asked me to recount it again, in the way I thought was important—not in the way I had been taught. “We have it in writing,” Arshil said. “Plus, all the children could tell us what you did. What we need is to hear your telling; how would you give us the story, if interpretation was all that mattered?”

Ellana added, “Every Keeper is different, and every Keeper should have a ring that is just as unique as they are. Look at Marethari’s ring—for her, the Dread Wolf’s trickery was important, especially because the gods all trusted him. Implicit trust in those known to cause trouble was something she warned against when she told the tale. What is most important to you? Show us: tell us the story as you would have it remembered.”

I stared at the hides being tanned nearby and thought; when I had gathered the words, I began to speak, starting once again from the beginning. “Before the fall of the Dales, before the fall of Elvhenan and the approach of the shemlen, Fen’Harel was not the only god to walk this realm, but he would soon see to it that he was…”

It took just less than a month for Mheganni and Fenarel to return from their trip, halla in tow. Of the three, one was barely more than a fawn, and this reminded me so much of when I’d first met Edelweiss that I took an immediate shine to him. Four halla weren’t enough to restart a herd, or even enough for more than bare-minimum traveling, but at least I could help on that front. Five halla pulling the aravels would be better. Imperfect, still, but we could search for more in Orlais.

Paivel and Variel, upon Mheganni and Fenarel’s return, insisted it was time for the ceremony, and I had nothing to delay them. Truthfully, the clan had earned at least a night’s rest from the near-frantic preparations. Whether we could afford it or not… I didn’t know. I had only been to the city a few times, and never for long, and Anders gave no indication of anything.

It wasn’t anything grand, in the end. I wore my ceremonial robes as the elders passed on to me the ring Arshil had carved and Marethari’s staff; had Marethari been alive, she would be the one to give me the items, and perhaps Ilen would have had the time to carve a staff for me. But Hahren, Vinell, Linara, and the few other elders in the clan were happy to serve, and the bramblewine and time helped dull the ache of responsibility and the tension of waiting.

Ilen approached me afterwards; he had an idea for my staff, and while traditionally the craftsmaster said nothing of a Keeper’s staff until said Keeper was presented with it, there were special circumstances.

“It would be fitting for you,” he said after explaining his intent, “but there are some lines not crossed without foreknowledge and permission.”

I was quiet for a moment. It was almost a moment too long—Ilen began to apologize and move away, but I stopped him. “No—mana, Master Ilen. It’s only a surprise. I hadn’t considered… Well. I’m sure you understand. But I think you’re right. And—and I think he would like it, too, if he knew.”

He peered at me, head tilted a bit. “Shall I take that for permission, then?”

“Yes,” I said, and smiled at him. “Do as you see fit; I trust your taste and your skill.”

He smiled back. “You’ll be less inclined to break this one, I think.”

“You know I never intended to break the first one.”

He just kept smiling, a light twinkle in his eyes, and I shooed him along his way. I hadn’t been particularly eager at the idea of a new staff, initially. I loved Maleficent, and she had been with me through so much, and she was a gift from two of my precious friends.

But now? Well, now it was a different story. I wasn’t eager, per se, to retire Maleficent—and perhaps I wouldn’t even truly retire her—but I was certainly eager to see Master Ilen’s finished product. His idea was unusual, though not unheard of, and even if it had given me pause upon first hearing it… The thought was growing on me.

 

There was only one last piece of business for me to take care of before I felt comfortable in my clan’s preparations, and for it, I went into the city alone for the first time since my conversation with Anders.

The Hanged Man was as dirty and packed as ever when I entered. I wore my Warden armor; though I had worn Dalish clothing when helping Pol, Ilen, and Arshil to trade, the Templars always stayed closer in those times, watching me like they expected to see me bewitch people into taking our items for more than their worth. When I wore the Grey Warden armor, though, they kept their distance. They didn’t stop watching, but their hands did not rest on their hilts, either.

My face was common enough in the Hanged Man that I garnered little response even in full armor. Someone muttered something that sounded like Varric’s name, but I didn’t head up the stairs to his suite. Instead, I went straight for the bar, where Isabela, reliable as ever, was cleaning some poor man of his gold.

It was decently obvious to me that she was using her breasts to distract him from the otherwise near-obvious cheating she was doing, but with how openly he stared, I felt no pity for him. I waited only long enough that he started to actually empty his pockets in search of something more valuable than a stained hankie, and then I had to interrupt. If not, Isabela was liable to suggest stripping, and while forcing this lout into a walk of shame was probably somewhat deserved, I had no interest in seeing it.

“Isabela,” I said, slipping to stand next to her, “have you got a few minutes?”

“Oi, wait your turn, knife-ear,” the man said. I ignored him; he was drunk, and I did not want to bother with a fight—especially not with the Templar staring at me from the corner of the room.

Isabela did not. “One moment, sweetpea,” she said to me, laying the sugar on thick for our company. I’m not sure where she pulled it from, but when she turned to face the man fully, she had a knife in her hand. “Want to try that again, Ralph?”

“What?” To his credit, Ralph did seem genuinely confused. Perhaps it was because he was so drunk, but I found it more likely that he was just that stupid. His eyes glanced over the knife, but slid back to her breasts like they were magnetized.

“Apologize to my friend here. I’ll give you five seconds. Five.” She twirled the knife.

“For what? He’s the one what interrupted.” His eyes did not move.

“Four.” Twirl.

“He’s the one what should be apologizing.” No reaction. Actually, that was a lie: he moved forward a bit.

“Three.” Twirl, twirl.

“This mean them rumors’re true, then? You a elf-lover or something?”

She didn’t say two. Or even one. She didn’t kill him, either; before he’d finished the sentence, the knife was pinning his hand to his crotch. He went from sneering to silent in less than a second, and a moment later, the pain hit. From the screaming, both his euphemistic and metaphorical heads were quite successfully penetrated. Not an ideal situation for him, needless to say.

“Normally, I’d ask for that back,” Isabela said, “but it’s just touched a part of you I never want to be even second-hand close to, so I think you can keep it. Now shut your trap and move your ass. My friend deserves a seat far more than your lousy ass.”

I didn’t stop or complain as she kicked him quite literally off the chair. There was fresh blood already on its surface, though, so I didn’t take it, and she wrinkled her nose in understanding.

Someone grabbed Ralph and started dragging him away. I didn’t see who. This was hardly the first scuffle Isabela had caused in such a manner, and wouldn’t be the last. She dropped a few extra coins on the bar in what would have been apology from anyone else; for her, it was probably just fair payment.

“So!” she said to me, smiling away. “What’s up? Malia didn’t send you, did she? I told her I’m busy today. It was a lie, but I’m not leaving the Hanged Man if I can help it.”

That probably meant Malia had dragged Isabela on something either particularly boring or particularly unprofitable misadventure. Garrett… simply didn’t usually ask for Isabela’s help if her skills didn’t seem relevant. “Not to worry,” I told her, giving a hopefully-inviting grin. “No Hawkes sent me. I actually came to ask something else.”

She squinted at me and pursed her lips a bit. “Mm-hm. You’re going to ask a favor, aren’t you? Merrill gets the same look on her face. Is it an elf thing? All wide-eyed and smiley?”

“I have never seen Fenris wide-eyed and smiley, so probably not,” I said.

She hummed. “True. Oh, I bet he’d look hilarious like that. Or just beautiful, like always. It’s not fair how pretty he is.”

It wasn’t, but… “Are you trying to distract me, Isabela?”

“Is it working?” Her Cheshire-cat-like smile told me she knew it wasn’t, so I rolled my eyes in answer, and she laughed. “Oh, alright. Have at it, then. What is it you want to ask?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I started, “but I understand you have a ship again. Or access to one, or something.”

Grimacing, Isabela looked to the side and nodded. “It’s not how I wanted to get a ship—killing a man and taking his ship isn’t what I’d call honorable, no matter what he was doing with it—but yes, I may have a ship, now. At least, no one else has tried to call it theirs. Why? Don’t tell me you want it. I’ve seen your aravels; there’s no way you can make an actual ship into something land-worthy.”

“That’s not exactly what I’m asking,” I said, hedging my bets. “Aravels have a very different construction, anyway, from something seaworthy, no matter how alike they look. What I want to ask is… Well, you know I’m Keeper, now. Of Clan Sabrae.”

“I may have heard that, yes,” she drawled. “Merrill hasn’t been terribly clear about what she thinks of it all, but I think she’s mostly glad, if that’s what you’re getting at here. I don’t see how this is related to the ship that may or may not be mine.”

“My clan has been on Sundermount for too long, and far too close to humans. It’s no secret that we’re there, and at any moment… It’s not defensible, it’s not secluded, and it’s not safe. We need to leave. I was hoping…” I took a moment to swallow and breathe deeply. “I was hoping you might allow us passage across the Waking Sea on your ship. We’d pay a fair fee for it; we do have some gold and trade-worthy items to exchange. I just—we can’t stay near Kirkwall, and none of us know the Free Marches enough for me to feel comfortable staying here, so the best plan of action, really, is—”

“Slow down, Vee!” Isabela interrupted, putting her hands on my shoulders and squeezing gently. “You don’t need to convince me of anything special. I get it.”

I sighed, feeling at least some of the tension leave with my built-up breath. “You do?”

“Yes. And I’m glad you came to me, really. You can’t just go asking any pirate, after all, and Kirkwall isn’t full of many kindly sailors.” I could feel the catch coming on. She leaned back and crossed her arms. “But there’s a little problem with your plan.”

The tension was back. “What?”

“Merrill.” Isabela raised an eyebrow at me. “Even if I let your clan on my ship and leave anytime soon, I already also promised Merrill I’d take her on the first trip, too. The way you’re sounding, you want to leave in the next few months. That’s plenty enough time to get together a crew and supplies, but not for two trips. Can you promise me your clan would play nice with Merrill?”

“I can’t promise everyone would be nice,” I said, unwilling to bend the truth, “because I may be Keeper, but there are about one hundred people in my clan, and each person has their own opinions. But I’ll do what I can. Is that—it’s not perfect, but it’s all I can promise.”

Isabela sighed dramatically. “You know, I really hoped you might say, ‘Of course, Isabela! No problem!’ I suppose that was too much to ask for, though, wasn’t it?”

I gave her a somewhat sad half-smile. “If I could so easily affect how people act, things would be very different.”

“Mm, I believe that.” She looked at me for a moment, chin in hand, and I wondered what was going through her mind. Despite purportedly being the simplest of our group in terms of what she wanted and what she did, Isabela remained oddly inscrutable to me.

At long last, she stuck a hand out. “You’ve got a deal, Vee. We’ll work out payment later, after I’ve seen just how much I’m going to be lugging around on your behalf.”

I gripped her hand solidly, her callouses and my own pressing together. “Ma serannas, Isabela. I cannot explain how much this helps.”

 

As the days dragged into weeks and Anders made no moves, I grew nervous. I was grateful, to an extent; the longer he waited, the more time I had to prepare my clan. But we were ready now, with all but the very last preparations completed, and they were growing fidgety, as well. I begged off of any suspicion by spending time in Kirkwall, claiming my last mission for the Grey Wardens was not quite done—a white lie.

It happened on an innocuous morning, as all such things do. I was in Kirkwall, thankfully—had I been with the clan, nothing would have gone right. (Not that this outcome was great, either, but of the two…)

“Orsino and Meredith are fighting at the Keep again,” Aveline announced, opening the door to the Hawke Estate like she belonged there as much as the rest of us.

Garrett groaned around his porridge. “They’re like toddlers,” he said, mouth half-full. Leandra pursed her lips and shook her head at him, but said nothing.

“Are they about to commit murder, or can we finish breakfast?” Malia asked. She was halfway through peeling an orange, and didn’t stop for Aveline’s intrusion.

“Oh, no, by all means,” Aveline said, sarcasm flowing like a river, “wait until they’ve woken all of Hightown. They only sent the Guard-Captain to find their Champions; I’m sure they won’t mind to send more people, too.”

Garrett groaned again, and Malia joined him this time. He began to shovel the last of his porridge into his mouth, so she said, “Fine! Go keep them from doing anything permanent. We’ll be around shortly.”

“You might want to fetch everyone.” Aveline shifted and glanced over her shoulder as though she could see the scene doubtlessly playing out at the Keep. “We may need the backup.”

This only elicited more groans. “Anders and I will take that shortcut in Darktown to the Alienage to get Merrill,” offered Garrett. Anders shifted beside him, but didn’t argue.

“Sounds good. I’ll go to the Hanged Man. Fenris said he had something to settle with Varric there, and if Isabela isn’t with Merrill, I’ll grab her, too.” Malia turned to me. “Would you mind to go to the Chantry and fetch Sebastian? We’ll meet outside the Keep to deal with whatever it is Orsino and Meredith can’t shut their traps about.”

I felt my heart begin to race, and I didn’t trust my words, so I just nodded. My silence garnered a raised eyebrow, but nothing more, and soon everyone was standing, making banal conversation. I heard Malia tell Garrett to take Peaches, Leandra demand that everyone at least take along a banana to eat as we walked, and Aveline called out something as she departed.

When I looked up at Anders, his face was completely emotionless—not in the way one’s face is at its most relaxed state, but in the way that a statue of a god shows no emotion, in the way that every depiction of Andraste was carefully neutral. I knew what this meant, and I stared at him until his eyes met mine. “In the Chantry,” he said. “You won’t have long.”

I would have as much time as it took for them to fetch Merrill and reach the Keep. With Darktown’s shortcuts… At the very longest, that was an hour, but I could not count on so much time. It was far more likely that I had half that. I nodded.

“Be careful,” Anders said.

“Dareth shiral,” I returned. One side of his mouth quirked up for half a second, there and gone again in the time it took to realize it had happened at all.

 

I’d had months to figure out what I would do—to figure out what the best method for getting everyone out of the Chantry was.

Still, as I all but ran up the steps, my mind blanked, and I could no longer recall what I’d decided would work best. I passed priests and worshippers alike, and my hurry gained more than one surprised sound.

“Sebastian!” My voice tore through the Chantry’s quiet, ripping it apart like a knife through silk. Everyone stared at me; I recognized no faces, no voices.

“Vir’era?” There, near the dais. Sebastian. He frowned at me, eyebrows drawn. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to leave,” I said. The words were breathless, from fear or from running. “Y-you have to—he’s going to—I don’t know where it is, I don’t—it’s here, and we don’t have time, and you have to leave. Everyone has to leave!”

“What are you talking about?” He came closer, meeting me in front of the candles. No one else moved—no one was listening.

“You need to leave!” I repeated, and I flung my arm to point to the doors. “E-everyone! Now! We have to go!”

No one moved, and the murmurs that started up were quickly silenced by none other than Grand Cleric Elthina herself, standing upon the dais. “The Chantry is a sacred place,” she said, her voice so much more confident than mine. “You are safe here. You need not worry.”

“No!” I shouted, but Sebastian pulled me to the side before I could say more.

“What in the Maker’s name are you going on about, Vir’era?” he demanded.

I stared into his blue, blue eyes and pleaded silently that he would believe me now as he hadn’t before. “You are in danger if you stay here. Y-you have to leave—everyone has to leave—Anders has—” My breath caught, the words fighting to come faster than my tongue could move. “He’s going to—there’s no time, please, we have to—we have to get everyone out, Sebastian, please!”

“What has Anders done now?” Sebastian asked, and if he still hated any of the words I had said in our fight less than two months ago, he didn’t reveal it.

“He will destroy the Chantry. We need to _make them leave_!”

I had always known that Sebastian thought very little of Anders—and that Anders, likewise, thought very little of Sebastian. Never had it been more clear, though, than when he accepted my words in that moment, with no proof to show for it.

“I will make an announcement. Be ready to organize the people. After—where are the Hawkes?”

“Going to the Keep. Anders is with them.”

He nodded. “I will head there immediately after to buy you some time.”

He had far more assurance that we could tear the priests from this sacred space than I did, but I didn’t have the time to argue. I mumbled out some kind of assent and he was gone, racing to the pulpit.

“Brothers! Sisters!” he began, and what words followed after hardly sounded like anything to me. The sound of blood was too loud in my ears, my own heartbeat pounding out anything else from my eardrum.

I didn’t know where Anders’ device was. Or, well, whatever it was he intended to use to blow this place up. In fact, I wasn’t even entirely sure he had one; with Justice—Vengeance so completely entwined within his being now, I would be unsurprised if somehow, he could just do it from afar. Magic was feared for a reason: Anders had become that reason.

As Sebastian spoke, I spotted Cynthia standing among the confused crowd, and my pounding heart skipped a beat—long enough that I heard Elthina’s voice begin to refute Sebastian.

I couldn’t let Cynthia die because of Elthina’s selfish self-assurance.

“ _Get out_!” I shouted, waving Maleficent wildly at the doors. “Now!”

“Knight Hugh, restrain him, if you would,” Elthina said, and then a Templar began to walk towards me.

“Elthina, please! Listen to me!” Sebastian begged, and I stopped listening. Hugh, one of the many Templars who I had never particularly known, stared at me from behind his helmet. I could see only his eyes, and I didn’t know if it was fear or pity in them now.

He raised his hand, sword still in its sheath, and Cleansed the area. I stumbled backwards, the discomfort jarring even when I was not actively casting. “Please,” I said, my own pleas echoing Sebastian’s above. “You need to leave.”

“You are under no spells,” he said, less question than observation.

“I’m not. We have to go!” I pointed to the doors again. “There is someone who will—I couldn’t stop him, and he’s—he will destroy this place, please, you have to go!”

“The Knight-Captain trusts you,” Hugh murmured, and I could have cried. I would have, if it would have made him move faster. He turned to the congregation, and with an authority I could not hope to match in my nervous state, he began to order the gathered people out.

“Sebastian, go!” I shouted, but Sebastian was already running. Elthina scolded Hugh and anyone who did as he asked. Too many people stood still, but between Hugh’s support and Sebastian’s words—well.

One of the Sisters ushered some children to the doors. “But Gran’ Cleric Elthina says we don’t gotta,” argued a little boy.

“Yes,” said the Sister, “but sometimes it is better to do something unneeded and make sure you are safe. If the Warden is wrong, we will have gone for an unexpected walk, and nothing bad will happen. If he is right, then we will be safer if we leave.”

I didn’t catch the boy’s reply. Cynthia shouted my name, moving to my side. As more people left, it became desperate—and, frankly, so, too, did I. It had been at least twenty minutes by now—I had precious little time left to bring everyone to safety. “Cynthia! Get out of here!”

She didn’t listen. I used Maleficent to guide people, her imposing cut far better at shepherding them in specific directions than I, even in my Warden armor, could hope to manage. Cynthia clambered over some pews to stand at my side, and when she gripped my shoulders, I noticed for the first time that she had grown taller than me. I would see to it she had the opportunity to grow yet more.

Hugh’s Cleanse meant I was still incapable of magic, and would be for at least five minutes more, but the increasing exodus was proving a boon. People are such social creatures; the actions of a few can so easily have great consequences on the many, and now nearly all the Chantry was flooding out—I could feel preemptive relief welling up.

Then, there was a crackle.

Nothing audible, nothing that any but me could notice—it was a rippling in the Veil, a charge passing between atoms that could be sensed only if you had the correct equipment. As a mage, I did. “ _RUN_!” I screamed. I wished so badly to cast Haste, to speed the process, but I couldn’t. Instead, I just began to move out, too.

The charging grew, making the hair on my arms stand on-end and reasserting my connection to the Fade far before it should have; I stumbled forward. Cynthia’s arm around my shoulders kept me from falling, and with my renewed connection I cast the largest Haste spell I could manage.

People were still inside, I knew. I could hear Elthina arguing with a Brother who was trying to make her see reason, using similar logic as the Sister who’d taken the children out. But we were out of time, now.

Those who had exited flooded down the steps into the courtyard. I sent a thin, bright fireball into the sky—a flare to let Anders know I was out. As it reached the height of the Chantry’s roof and continued into the sky, I pulled up as much shielding as I could.

Someone began to ask what the flare had been about, and more questions followed—was it a signal, was I in on it, what was happening?

The Chantry exploded, and the force was too much for my shields. I was knocked out in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not hugely confident in that last scene, but i wanted to get it out to you guys. if there are any suggestions you can make, i genuinely would love to hear them. i may or may not use them on this specific chapter and edit it later depending on my mood and use of free time
> 
> given that i just got fallout 4 (goty edition ayy) for christmas, though, uh. edits'll probably be far-off. i'll make sure to let you know if/when they happen.


	43. there's a reason he never told meredith about the forms he learned after 9:31 dragon and this is it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG!!!!!! i've been alternately Busy, Sick, Playing Fallout 4, and Incapable of Writing This Damn Chapter. this chapter took a lot. at one point, before even showing my beta, i rewrote probably half the scenes, and then after showing my beta, i added a scene and rewrote half of another and a few lines throughout it. i'm still not 100% pleased with the outcome, but that's mostly bc it's a slow start, a long haul, and a less-than-completely-satisfying end...
> 
> it's a lot better than the first draft, though. and it is almost 7k words, which is about 2k more than i usually write/chapter, so i hope you're all ready.
> 
> that said: only one chapter (maybe plus a letters-type epilogue, depending on exactly how this next chapter goes) left to wrap up Kirkwall, and then we're on to Keeper!

I woke up in a cell, aching everywhere. My head and back were the worst initially, but when I tried to move, my wrists turned to fire; they were bound far too tightly into iron, some special mage-shackles which enclosed my hands entirely. Some mangled sound left my mouth, and I heard all-too-familiar armor move into sight.

The Templar was unfamiliar, but that didn’t matter. Her face was impossible to read—not for being impassive, but rather because I had no idea what the pinched lips and cocked head meant. “Warden,” she said. “Why did you do it?”

Do what? I tried to sit again, mindful of my wrists and the predicament I was in. This had to be the Gallows; I had never been to this part, but what reason would I have had to see it? I wasn’t even the one to sneak people out; that was always Anders, while I pretended I knew nothing.

Oh. Anders.

“He would have killed them,” I said. “I had to—they didn’t deserve that. None of them. Not even Elthina.”

The Templar scrunched her nose. “So instead of stopping him, you threaten who you can to force them out, and then send a signal to let him wipe out everyone else. I thought you might have been better than that. I hoped it was a mistake, that there were other Grey Wardens in the area you were calling to for help.”

Her words shamed me. Not enough to regret—not yet. She was right, after all. “I don’t know that I count as a Warden any longer.”

She peered down at me, her lips pinched again. “Maybe not. But they take in anyone, don’t they? Even murderers. So maybe you’re just proof what happens if you do that.”

This time, her voice was sharp enough to scar. The Grey Wardens walked a thin line—there to do what must be done, the only ones able to do so, yet always willing to pay any price… It was not merely the Joining that marked one in blood.

“I didn’t do it on their behalf,” I argued, hoping maybe to defend some fragment of the Wardens’ honor. “I did it for myself.” For Anders, too, but she would hate to hear that, would hear it as guilt. “For Justice.”

Only as she sneered did I remember that she would not know about Justice; to her, the word would not be a name. “Some justice. The Knight-Commander might be mad, but I don’t think she was entirely wrong about you. Once she’s finished with your friends, it’ll be your turn. One more scar on your face can’t hurt. Pity it’ll mess up that tattoo.”

She thought I would be made Tranquil. Perhaps I would. If Meredith won… But no. That’s not how this was meant to go. Meredith never won. It was always Hawke—my journal said so, and it—I—had yet to be wrong where it counted. Garrett and Malia wouldn’t let me down now.

The Templar, confident in my silence and my entrapment, left me then. With my hands so bound, I couldn’t perform any of my usual spells. In fact, there almost wasn’t any magic I could do at all (certainly nothing offensive), though I could still feel it, could still feel my connection to the Fade. They hadn’t decided to Cleanse the space or dose me with magebane, at least, for whatever that might be worth.

No sound from outside made it to where I was. I didn’t doubt that fighting was going on, but the still silence could have fooled me. Without use of my magic, I was nearly useless; chained as I was, I was certainly so. Hoping for some clue, I resorted to examining the cell as closely as I could manage from my vantage point.

The bars were notably thin-spaced. I could maybe reach an arm or leg through, but my head and body would have no hope, even if I did somehow rid myself of the shackles. There were no windows; all the light came from rune-engraved lamps at presumably even intervals on the walls outside the cells. And there were more cells; I saw an empty one across from me, completely devoid of any sign of life, and there was at least one next to it, and surely yet more beside my own.

I had a pile of hay that I was currently strewn across, a poorly-cut wooden chair, and a pot (from the smell, it was to piss in). There was no privacy looking out, and though I could not see my jailor now, I could hear the faint sounds of paper shuffling.

I could also hear scurrying.

Either unnoticed by my jailor or considered unworthy of her attention, a few mice skittered past my cell from her direction. The largest one looked at me and froze, sniffing the air. I didn’t move, and then he continued on, following his compatriots away.

I shifted. The shackles clanked, and my wrists burned. The Templar did not investigate.

She had too much faith.

I laid down, neither attempting to make extra noise nor attempting to quiet the sound of the shackles. My wrists felt better when I let them rest against the floor, though the shackles were still too tight. For the time it took me to enter a mildly meditative state, I did nothing except breathe. The Templar continued whatever paper task she was taking care of.

Something I’d never quite managed to ask—it was a strange question, both personal and somehow very… well, it was strange—is just what happened when I transformed. When Morrigan changed shape, it was a small production: a dark smoke exploding from her body, utterly hiding it from view, and then coalescing again into something new with a quiet crackle not unlike muffled thunder. When Flemeth shapeshifted, it was art: that bright golden light blinding those who looked upon her, the confident tugging of the Veil like adorning a familiar coat, and the reveal of a grand dragon at the end.

What did it look like for me? Was it closer to Morrigan? This seemed likely; I was no god. But I was an elf, and if my halla-hide was any indication, I was favored by the gods; perhaps I could make a grand entrance.

Either way, if there was any sound to alert the Templar as to what I was doing, she did not react; for that alone, I doubted my transformations to be identical to Morrigan’s.

As a mouse, my aching wrists were an issue, but they were not one I could afford to address until I was long gone from here—until I at least had Maleficent in my hands again. Mice are no strangers to pain, anyhow, and it did not affect me nearly so much as I may have feared. I was limping as I ran from the cell, but I was still able to run, and that was the important part.

I stuck to the wall, like the other mice had, but I went in the opposite direction. I passed the Templar, and she almost did nothing. As I squirmed under the door, though, she tapped the table and called out, “Frederick!”

I thought it was, perhaps, another Templar. Perhaps she was suspicious, or had somehow learned that I had left my cell without even seeing as much.

Of course, it wasn’t another Templar, because that would make things easy. Instead, running full-tilt down the corridor was a cat. He almost didn’t see me. I was almost lucky. But I was directly in his path, and though I had been reliably informed that my shade of mouse was a nondescript brown, cats don’t use only their eyes to hunt.

He caught my scent and changed course with the grace of practice.

Thinking fast—and thankful that the door was of solid wood—I swapped shapes, going from mouse to cat. Frederick aborted his mission just as quickly, a surprised chirrup the only warning before he backflipped and scrambled back the way he came. I had little choice but to follow him, though once he was out of sight, I switched back to the mouse: it was slower, yes, but also significantly stealthier, and getting under doors was a thing I’d likely need.

Unlike Kirkwall proper, the Gallows wasn’t labyrinthine. That isn’t to say that it was entirely logical, but it was at least not intentionally confusing. I peered into the rooms I passed, but there was only one Templar other than the one who had been intended to keep watch over me… and this man was asleep.

When I was confident Frederick would not try to catch me (he disappeared into the sleeping man’s room), I slipped into what appeared to be an armory. I didn’t know where Maleficent was, exactly; that I had been kept in my armor was a surprise in and of itself, but perhaps there hadn’t been time and hands enough to divest me of it.

The good thing about a staff with a piece of lyrium is this: since lyrium is tied to the Fade so completely, mages can sense lyrium the way we sense any other kind of magic. Plus, it just looks damn cool.

So I knew Maleficent was close, because I could feel the lyrium. (I could feel a lot of lyrium, actually, but this was a Templar stronghold, and therefore expected; however, Templars do not drink pure lyrium. Maleficent’s aura was stronger.) She wasn’t in the armory. She wasn’t in the hall.

The bad thing about sensing lyrium is this: it is little more than a strange sort of radar, alerting you to the nearness and direction of an object, but not how to reach it.

In my frustration, the slow scrabble of mice-feet was nowhere near quick enough. There were but two Templars down in this hole with me; I risked shifting again. Cats are quick, and still stealthy—at least, stealthier than elves or halla or dogs.

I needed to find Maleficent. I needed to leave the dungeons, or whatever it was the Templars chose to call this part of the Gallows. I needed to find my friends, to help them however I could. I needed—

Maleficent was moving.

I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her growing distant. Upward? I bolted for the stairs, thanking the Creators that the ancient Tevinter Imperium hadn’t decided doors at either end of internal staircases were necessary, and I raced up the steps a few feet from the armory’s door.

It was hard to track exactly where Maleficent was being taken, beyond ‘away.’ I passed a Templar in my rush to get nearer—she wasn’t being pulled up anymore, but off elseways—and got only a mumbled curse about ‘Damn cats!’

Had I known that cats were so common in the Gallows, I might have tried infiltrating previously. Perhaps I could have learned something useful, or at least something damning.

I raced down the corridor I’d found myself in, then banked a hard left when it ended at a new corridor, and it took me a moment of running to realize: Maleficent was now moving towards me.

Though I wanted to pick up my speed, perhaps to try and steal her back before anyone could stop me, I knew I couldn’t. I was a mage surrounded by Templars, alone. I would have maybe a few seconds of surprise after transforming in which I could feasibly do anything, and then I would be Cleansed, and even if that didn’t leave me utterly debilitated, my hand-to-hand was nowhere near the level it would need to be to take on even one fully-trained Templar and win without the use of magic.

I slowed my pace and stared intently down the corridor. With my ears perked for any sound, I could just make out someone walking this way, but I couldn’t hear the telltale clank of armor. There was only one possibility: the Hawkes had found me, someway, somehow, and sent someone on a rescue mission.

Except…

A voice, still too distant to be intelligible, called something out. A greeting, not a threat; it was too kind, too casual. Surprised, yes, but not unpleasantly so. Sebastian could maybe get that kind of reaction; everyone knew who he was and how dedicated he was to the Maker, but it was astoundingly unlikely.

Whoever had Maleficent didn’t answer verbally and didn’t pause.

So I was wrong. It was a Templar. I had just enough time to get off one transformation before they would round the bend and I would be visible, and I would need to fight. A cat can’t win this, but a dog might.

Cullen, sans armor and sword, appeared at the end of the hallway, and I was so surprised that I jumped out of the braced stance I had adopted. To my credit, Cullen jumped, too.

He didn’t drop Maleficent. I saw him glance down the hall behind me, at Maleficent in his hands, then back to me. He frowned, mouth pinching. As placidly as I could, I dipped my head and approached him. He stood completely still. I knocked my nose against Maleficent’s staff, and he raised one eyebrow at me. I huffed.

After a moment, he reached some decision. “Can you…” He sighed, closing his eyes, one hand reaching up to rub his neck. “If this isn’t you, I will feel like the world’s biggest fool. Can you be a cat now?” To answer, I switched back to cat shape again, and his shoulders slumped a bit, the pinched look in his eyes relaxing even as his eyebrows drew closer together. “Follow me.”

Maleficent still in his hands, he marched the way I’d come, continuing straight where I had turned. He led me up, up, up—and then we were in the training courtyard. The one I had used so briefly three years ago, which I had never seen without at least ten Templars performing some kind of exercise.

It was completely empty.

“It’s safe now,” he said, and I was an elf again, and his eyebrows pulled so low over his eyes, his jaw visibly tightening. He didn’t move to hand Maleficent back, and though I ached to have her in my hands, I did not reach out for her. Something told me it would be a bad idea, even if my heart pounded and shoulders hunched—even if it made me insignificant and incapable.

Cullen stared at me for a long, long moment. I looked back and wondered what he saw, wondered if I looked as small as I felt. Eventually, he spoke, and his words were as careful as always. “I need you to tell me what happened. I-I know there is no time, but I need to know if you—if any of what I have been told is true.”

He was right: there really wasn’t time for this, especially not considering how much he did not know, but… though he did not say it, and though he looked as severe as ever, I knew Cullen was scared. Kirkwall was going up in flames, and even if the Templars were as much to blame here as any mage (and perhaps more, if you asked Anders)… Well. I’d have to make the time. He deserved the truth, as much as I could give him.

“What I am about to tell you may leave you with more questions,” I warned, “but I will try my best. Just know…” I never wanted to hurt anyone? to hurt you? That was a terrible thing to say. “I only wanted to do the right thing.” Not much better, but any progress was progress. Whatever happened next, however this resolved, I made the decision then that I would write him a letter, later, when everyone was safe, to give him the full truth. I wouldn’t be able to give it in person, if things went the way I expected.

I explained as well as I could, but there was so much I didn’t say—so much I couldn’t tell him, not here, not now, not without all the time in the world for every question it would bring with it, for every long explanation I would need to give… for the way that admitting I was friendly with an abomination would betray his trust more than anything else in this story could possibly hope.

Instead, I told Cullen that Anders had gone slightly mad himself, not unlike Meredith. I told him that even Garrett and I working together couldn’t help the terror in his heart, the terror that Meredith’s paranoia sparked and Elthina’s inaction stoked. “We all begged her to say something—anything, but she refused, and this last time—Anders, he—he planted something to explode. I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t have possibly found and defused it on my own.

“But I could save as many people as possible, so that’s—that’s what I did. And he knew I would be in the Chantry. He… he promised to wait as long as he could. He didn’t want to kill me. I promised to let him know when I was out. I-I couldn’t… I couldn’t let the innocent people be killed. I…” So many were still dying, anyway. So many had already died. My voice fell to a whisper, because I knew I had failed Cullen; surely, in his eyes, I was as much a party to Anders’ destruction as Elthina was to Meredith’s. Surely, there must be some part of him that hated me now. “I had to try.”

Cullen turned on his heel and stalked away. I heard him mutter a prayer, and then he spoke, still facing away from me. “When I got off the boat today, there was a Templar waiting for me. He told me that Orsino and Meredith were fighting in public again, and that the Champions had been called for. I didn’t even make it to them before the Chantry exploded. I don’t know what was happening there, but I know Meredith called for the Annulment of the Circle, and I know that Orsino has gathered the mages to fight her. I went to the Chantry to see how much I could help. If I could help.

“When I arrived, there was a girl who came to me.” He turned around. “She said her name was Cynthia.”

I nearly collapsed in relief at her name, my hands shaking. He took a half-step forward, one arm reaching out, but pulled back. “She’s alive?” I asked.

“Yes. She said you saved her.” He watched me as he spoke, looking for something. I don’t know what. I didn’t much care.

“That isn’t—I don’t—it doesn’t matter if I saved her or Sebastian or even if Meredith did!” I said. “Just that she’s alive. I-I—I was so scared.”

“It does matter,” Cullen argued. He moved forward in his insistence, but his shoulders were hunched, his arms held in front of him like offerings; there was nothing threatening about him in that moment. He stopped short of me, close enough to touch, but did not bridge the gap; neither did I. “It—it changes enough. You’re not good at complimenting yourself, but I like to think I know you. A-and if you did save her—if you saved the people in the Chantry—if you even tried to…”

He took a deep breath. “It’s not everything. There are other factors, things I don’t know… but it’s enough for now.” He put Maleficent down, leaning her against a nearby pillar, and started to turn away once more. “I need to find the Knight-Commander.”

“Be careful,” I said, reaching a hand to him, but he was out of reach once more. “And—whatever happens, whatever she has done: it is not your fault. You could never have stopped her.”

I could see his jaw work as he took in my words. “I am the Knight-Captain,” he said, instead. “It is my duty.”

He took a few steps to the door, then looked at me again. “I’m sorry, Vir’era,” he said, and the words confused me enough that I didn’t respond. He was gone by the time my thoughts caught up to the movement of time again.

He had nothing to be sorry for. There was nothing he could have done; he did not have the information I did. If anyone had failed, it was me, and me alone. I picked up Maleficent and took to the sky.

 

By the time I arrived, the mages’ hall was teeming with terrified people. Most were mages themselves, but I noticed more than a few Templars in the mix. These Templars didn’t wear their standard armor, likely to prevent friendly fire; instead, they each had on random assortments of things, including only bits from their Templar armor. Orsino was in the middle of the hall, standing upon a small, raised platform; my friends stood with him.

I flew straight for them. Malia recognized me, and the pure relief in the shout she made upon such was enough that I was close to tears immediately upon my transformation back into an elf.

Malia grabbed me first, pulling me into a hug. “We were so scared—we had no idea what to think—Hugh told us you’d gotten out, but you didn’t come, and we couldn’t wait—”

“Let him breathe, Hawke,” Varric said, tapping her arm. It did the trick; she pulled back with a sniffle, and I had space again. It didn’t last long, though. Varric gave me a quick squeeze of his own, which earned a half-hearted protest from Malia, and then I was running the gamut of hugs. Even Aveline hugged me, and we were neither extremely close nor was she typically tactile with me. (Or anyone else, to be fair.) Fenris didn’t hug me, not at first, but I hugged him, and he reciprocated without any hesitation, and that said enough.

Carver had shown up at some point, and I was far less surprised by this than I should have been. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the area, as far as I was aware; how he made it from wherever he was to Kirkwall and found his siblings in the mess of destruction was utterly beyond me.

Anders was the last. He held onto my shoulders even as he pulled away. “I thought—when you didn’t come, I thought—”

“I’m alive,” I told him, the only words I could think to say, the only words that could possibly ease the weight on his shoulders. He had had a hand in this destruction—some would say he had caused it—but he didn’t need my death to be added to his problems. “I have no plans to die yet.”

“Few do,” he answered, but he managed a wan smile, and that was enough, for now.

“I hate to interrupt,” Orsino said, “but Meredith’s Templars are on their way. We must prepare. Champions, what would you ask of us?”

Malia and Garrett looked over everyone, identical frowns on their faces. All Malia would need was a beard, and they’d look precisely the same. (…Okay, maybe not.) What was it they saw, exactly? I turned my own gaze to the gathered faces. The mages of southern Thedas were rarely trained to fight; the mages of the Gallows were expressly forbidden to learn. These people were frightened, and with reason. Alone, they could never hope to win.

Even with our help, it would be no easy feat. Meredith didn’t have the loyalty of all her Templars, but she had the loyalty of enough, and they could all fight. With use of their own powers, they could run us down.

But we had the City Guard. Aveline couldn’t bring them all here, and most were likely trying to keep the citizens safe however they could, but—Donnic would be here soon, I knew. And we had a few Templars of our own. Enough to prevent an immediate slaughter.

Maybe, just maybe, we had enough to save those most vulnerable.

As Malia, Garrett, Aveline, and Orsino started to talk strategy, I caught sight of Connor’s face nearby, and I went to him. I made sure that Varric saw me leave, though, just in case pulling a disappearing act caused some kind of panic.

“Vir’era,” said Connor, as soon as he realized I was coming to him. His face was paler than I’d ever seen it, his pupils blown, and everything about him shook enough that I could feel my own nerves begin to vibrate in response. “I—they said—d-did she really—did the Knight-Commander call f-for the—to Annul…”

As his hands clasped together for some desperate measure of control, I pulled them into my own. I was more solid than him, for now. This was not my first time knocking on Death’s door, and it was not my worst nightmare. Which of the two caused it to be more frightening for Connor, I couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. I tugged his eyes to look into my own and kept careful track of my breathing, lest it mirror his panting fear.

“We will live through this,” I promised him, pressing his hands tight enough that, for a moment, they did not shake. “Meredith has called for the Annulment, but she has no right to it anymore, not with the Grand Cleric dead. The Champions are here, the Guard-Captain is here, and I’m here. You’ll be safe, Connor, I promise.”

He surged forward and wrapped his arms around me. At first, I didn’t respond; then, feeling how even his ribs shook in his chest, I squeezed him tight. “Dirthavara. We will stop her; I will make sure of it.”

If I had to kill Meredith alone, I would, but I was done waiting. I pried Connor away with the gentlest touch I could manage, and I ushered him with the children and the elderly to the offices at the back, then rejoined my friends where they stood at the front of the room.

“Aveline, Fenris, Carver, I want you at the front with Keran and the other ex-Templars. Keep them from entering as long as you can,” Malia ordered. Aveline and Fenris nodded; Carver gave the Wardens’ salute. “Isabela, you and I will pick off any who make it past them, and help where we can.” Another nod.

Garrett stepped up next. “Vir’era, Merrill, you two should stand at either side of the doors. Trip them up as much as you can, however you can, and shield our front line.” It was a reasonable task, so we didn’t argue. “Sebastian, Varric: you and I will stand on the desks and take them out as they enter the doors.” More nodding. “Anders, I want you low. Keep an eye out for anyone who needs healing. They’ll target you first, if they see you, so keep out of sight as much as you can.”

Anders bristled. “This is my fight, too, Garrett! I caused this—I won’t let you risk lives for me!”

“That’s not the only reason why I want you low,” Garrett said, and though his words were sharp, his face was soft. “With Vee at the front with Merrill, we need a good healer. I also want your shielding on myself, Sebastian, and Varric, of course, as well as any mages who join us.” The last statement was directed at those who were gathering nearby, watching.

Anders huffed and puffed, but Garrett did not bow down. Eventually, Anders was forced to concede; it was, after all, a sound battle plan, however much Anders himself disliked it. “Fine. But I’m not going to sit by if there’s some way I can help!”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

 

There was nothing eventful about that battle. There should have been, I thought. Something was supposed to happen, something that would make it all so difficult, so impossible, that I couldn’t have possibly… but no. We fought incoming Templars, but even with the occasional Cleanse rendering Merrill and myself near to useless at the front, it was hardly even a challenge. There was no desperate turn to blood magic, no defeatism. We were holding our ground, winning. There was no need for such all-consuming fear.

Well, no need for those of us who were accustomed to battle. The Gallows’ mages were frightened easily, and more than one had to flee to the back simply for being unable to withstand the carnage. After all, we were killing, and even if it was nothing to regret, it is never easy the first time. (I couldn’t remember my first time, though. Perhaps it had been easy, for me, but I was Dalish; fighting for the right to live was almost a rite of passage.)

It’s not so much that the fighting stopped because the Templars stopped coming, but rather because the next one to come held aloft a white flag, running to us with no helmet and only half her armor; she was not coming for battle. The barrage of attacks paused.

Malia went out to meet her, Aveline at her side. I couldn’t hear what was said, but no one looked happy. I turned to survey the mages and ex-Templars again, to see how many we had lost.

Five. Four had been Templars themselves, and only one a mage. It was—the number was so pitifully small, so laughable. Could we really have done so well? It seemed impossible.

“Knight-Captain Cullen has called for our aid!”

I whipped around at the words. Malia almost never sounded so assured, so commanding, but there she was, her face solemn and her posture tall. “He has declared Knight-Commander Meredith unfit for duty, and asks our aid to relieve her of her post—by force, if necessary!” Murmurs danced through the crowd. “Mages, you have done enough. I will not ask for more. Those who wish to join us may do so, but I implore you to ensure your own safety.”

“It’s no longer safe for you to remain here,” Garrett called out, walking to join Malia. “That much is clear; even if the Knight-Commander is removed, the citizens of Kirkwall will be unsatisfied, as she has turned them against you, against us. Gather what you can carry and be prepared to leave; as soon as Meredith is dead, it will be unwise to remain.”

A mage nearby looked at me. “S-surely the Knight-Captain wouldn’t…wouldn’t let anything happen to us, would he? He’s—he’s been more reasonable. Almost even nice.”

“He may not be able to stop them,” I said. While I knew this mage’s words were true—Cullen would have protected the Gallows from dissatisfied citizens as much as from themselves—I also knew he would have precious little he could do. “The Templar forces are in disarray, and will be decimated before we leave. Garrett is right; you should leave. Spread the word of what truly happened. Don’t let anyone forget Meredith’s evil.”

 

Fighting Meredith was harder. When we first arrived, she still had a number of Templars who were fiercely loyal to her, and they grappled with those who defected to join Cullen; I didn’t doubt friendly fire was a significant issue. When everyone is wearing the same uniform, how can you tell who you’re meant to fight and who you’re meant to help?

But as we approached, she laughed. She displayed her sword, and the corrupted lyrium within it, and I—

Lyrium is a funny thing, you see. It causes madness if consumed in great quantities, or if consumed over the course of a lifetime—so many Templars have gone mad from it, but never violently so. More like some strange mix of dementia and Alzheimer’s. Even dwarves, separate as they are from the Fade, are not immune to lyrium, and a lifetime of working with the rawest forms can leave them as addled as any who ingest it consistently.

The corrupted form is somehow more potent in this aspect; perhaps it is due to the same way that the Calling warps a Warden’s thoughts. Whatever the reason, Meredith was beyond saving, now. Paranoid before and violent after, she used every ounce of power she had, every gift the red lyrium allowed, and she did not relent.

I had to focus very hard to ignore the dual call of active red lyrium, of whatever it was Meredith was trying to do. It pulled at my blood, a quiet urging to give in, a distant song tempting me through the ether.

How many Templars stood with her at the beginning, I don’t recall. I laid a web of paralysis glyphs around myself and put my concentration in the one place I would need to fight least to keep it: on the power-mad Knight-Commander herself. She and her idol-sword glowed red, and that song kept my attention so well that I would not have noticed a dragon landing beside me.

For her part, Meredith didn’t engage many of her Templar abilities. Surely, with the red lyrium, she would have been able to Cleanse the whole area—I would have been made very vulnerable, though she likely did not know that. But perhaps the madness made her forget, or perhaps it made her think she didn’t need it.

I caught myself watching as Carver ran at her with his sword, doing nothing to help him or hinder her. When she deflected him into a wall, I summoned the willpower to cast, though the problem quickly became what I would cast—a glyph would do little. Shapeshifting was a poor idea.

My hazy thoughts worked slowly to find a true solution, though I knew it should have been an easy thing. I saw Malia run up behind Meredith and managed to cast a shield over her, but my spell must have been a giveaway; as soon as it swirled around Malia, Meredith turned and slashed her sword in a glowing arc. Off-guard, Malia ducked too slowly, and was batted aside.

Something pushed Meredith a few feet along the ground and made her stumble, and then Fenris was there, and I had proven too slow to cast something useful once again. Meredith shouted—a truly inhuman sound, for all she still appeared to have a human shape. There was a clamor beside me. Someone shouted my name, and then I was on the ground. I blinked up at the sky. A huge stone something moved in the way, lifted a hand. Meredith shouted again.

As the stone figure made to pummel me, two things rescued me: first was a shielding spell I knew to have come from Anders (his magic always felt more like the Fade), and the second was Cullen, his shield raised at an angle to alter the statue’s aim.

“Vir’era!” Cullen shouted. “Get up!”

And I did. The lyrium-song still pulled at me, but with the Fade wrapping around me, too, I had at least some use of my faculties—enough to be more aid than liability, anyway. I pulled the freezing force of winter from the Fade and wrapped it around the statue until pieces froze. A wave of Garrett’s force magic stormed past to shatter away one arm and half the torso. Cullen, useless against a creature of stone, waited long enough for me to nod and usher him off; then he was gone back into the chaos I had not previously noticed.

The statue, nearly four times my height and intimidating even with one arm gone, did not falter. I cast a more concentrated Winter’s Grasp at its remaining arm. Loud, straining cracks joined the sounds of the fighting as the arm froze over. This time, instead of Garrett’s magic shattering it, a crossbow bolt lodged itself into a weak point near the shoulder—then another, and another—and the entire arm fell, splintering as it hit the ground.

I don’t think the statue could feel any pain; it continued its attacking as though nothing had gone wrong, rearing one leg back to kick me. It was slow enough, though, that even my addled mind had the time to jump away. The stone scraped along the metal that covered my back, but there wasn’t enough force to even push me in a direction.

Since the ice was working so well, I kept at it, freezing one leg, then the other, my friends helping to destroy each frozen piece, until only an unnaturally-moving torso was left writhing on the ground.

I turned back to the battle, lyrium-song drawing my eyes to Meredith. She was bleeding in a few places; shallow wounds, mostly, though the arrow in her shoulder (a miracle hit at the joint) had one arm much lower than the other.

She waved her sword over her head and shouted again; from the creaking sounds that ambled over the rest of the space, the other statue must have been awakened. But it was on the other side of the courtyard, and my eyes were glued to her sword. Perhaps I could freeze it. Perhaps I could freeze her.

Before I could make such an attempt, Aveline and Donnic rushed at her from opposing sides. She caught Aveline’s blade almost too easily, but didn’t have time to stop Donnic’s shield from bashing into her, pushing her out of balance. Aveline spun around, letting Meredith’s sword fall sharply to the stone floor, and nearly managed to slice her own sword into Meredith’s exposed side.

But Meredith was too quick, even without full control or cognitive ability. She used her sword to shove herself to the side, letting Donnic fall into her place; Aveline only just stopped her sword from hitting her husband, though I doubt Donnic would have held it against her.

Meredith was in the open, now, and bleeding more heavily, breathing visibly even with her armor still covering most movement. I watched as she lifted her sword, and found myself lifting Maleficent in sync. The lyrium called to me, sang my name like it was something joyous, something precious, and I could almost hear words…

I met Meredith’s gaze, then, and she smirked, and I could feel the Fade wrapping around me for some spell. Which spell I had begun, I didn’t know, but I changed course and launched everything I had at Meredith instead, letting Maleficent be the focus just as I was the conduit. Though the red lyrium melted away the first ice with no issue, I kept at it. Cold is the absence of energy; heat is its presence. Dissipating energy into nothingness was almost second nature to me.

I pushed and pushed and pushed—I think others joined me at some point, but all I could think about was the lyrium’s sweet song and my absolute determination not to give in.

Only when Meredith finally lost control did I fully regain mine; how much of my confusion had been her doing, knowing or not?

I had a front-row seat to her demise; as she lost whatever battle of wills it took to master red lyrium, I stopped my own magic, panting. I had wondered, in some part of me, if she would truly become red lyrium, or if that had been a fanciful retelling somehow—but, no. There was no fanfare, no shockwave, barely even a sound, but still it was true: there, clear as day, frozen in fear and frustration… The red lyrium had consumed and become her.

The Templars had stopped their infighting, too, but maybe that had been the case for a while already; none were even staring each other down. Cullen approached Malia and Garrett. His sword was still drawn, but it was at his side, unraised. The three were silent, staring, considering, and the whole courtyard waited in unnatural quiet.

Without a word, with only the barest of nods, Malia and Garrett turned around and began to walk out. Aveline marched to their side, as did Carver—then all my friends were slipping over to them, as well as a few mages, and I…

I shrank Maleficent and tucked her into my belt. Cullen looked at me as I began to move to follow, and I realized his lip was bleeding. I couldn’t go up to him now, couldn’t heal him perfectly. Instead, I sent a battlefield’s healing spell to him, and watched the wound close. He blinked at me, and I think he almost smiled in the surprise—his eyes widened then crinkled, his brow smoothed, but his lips did not curve. He touched the new scar with a bare hand, still staring at me with an expression I could not place, and when I inclined my head, he pulled his fingers away and nodded back.

I followed the Hawkes’ footsteps out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did take out the whole.... orsino-blood-magic-bullshit bit, bc it never seemed to suit his character to me and this is my fic so fuck it.
> 
> I also want to take this opportunity to quickly remind everyone of something that i find important: vir'era, though he is the POV character and is ostensibly being as impartial as he can in such a position, is not a reliable narrator, and his interpretation of other characters' thoughts should not be taken as Perfect Truth.


	44. SEASON FINALE: BEWARE THE RAMBLING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after this, just the epilogue!!!

_Cullen,_

_When you asked me to tell you what happened after Anders destroyed the Chantry, I said I would not be able to tell you everything, and I didn’t, because there wasn’t enough time. Perhaps I am a coward for not coming to you in person after everything to clear up the remaining things you didn’t know, but I find I had little choice. I am a Keeper now, as you know, and my clan must come first, and it is simply too dangerous for us to remain anywhere near Kirkwall._

_I will tell you more now, though, in this letter. I hope you can forgive me for not saying anything sooner, and for even now keeping some secrets. There is more to it all—there is always more—but I fear what will happen if this letter is intercepted. I promise, someday, when I see you again, I will tell you everything you want to know. I will answer any question you have, and even those you may not have thought to ask. I hope you can have patience until then, and that you can forgive me. Dirthavara, and ir abelas._

_The first thing you should know is this: there is no singular moment I can point to as the start. I believe this has been building since the Circles first came into existence, however well-intentioned. This is no new war: not for me, not for Anders, not for any mage in Southern Thedas (Dalish, apostate, or Circle-bound). But Anders wasn’t so adamant about fixing things at first. When I met him, he was just another apostate desperate to stay out of the Circle—desperate enough to join the Grey Wardens. Back then, Vigil’s Keep was in a dire way itself—though Weisshaupt had sent us some Wardens to help set up the outpost, they were almost all slain by a darkspawn attack. We took in anyone willing and able. If we wanted to have enough people to answer any demands made of the Wardens, we needed to._

_Of course, had Anders chosen a different time to join, I firmly believe he would still have been accepted—he is a talented mage, particularly in the healing arts, and that would have more than compensated for any perceived flaws of his for being an apostate. So, no, it isn’t Anders who we brought in out of our own sheer desperation: it is Justice._

_Justice is, and always has been, a rather complicated matter. He is a spirit—or, at least, he was. Now, I’m less than sure what he is. I fear he has become a demon, but that—I’m getting ahead of myself. We… recruited Justice, in a manner of speaking, because of a series of strange darkspawn-caused magical events I don’t have the time to describe in full. (If you write to Warden-Commander Castor Cousland, or Warden-Constable Neria Surana, they may be able to help. Or to Warden Nathaniel Howe; he was there.) Originally, Justice was stuck on this side of the Veil in the body of one of the fallen Grey Wardens, and we felt it our duty to help him, if we could. There is precious little literature on how to safely return a bound spirit to the Fade. Most advice is to simply kill, as most spirits that come here are demons and hold ill will. Justice was not and did not. Not then. Now… well._

_As I’m sure you can guess, we were unable to find any method to both safely remove Justice from the body he unwillingly was tied to and return him to the Fade. Perhaps that would have been the end of that, until his borrowed body decomposed entirely or he was killed, but Justice and Anders… They became friends, and Anders was determined to help Justice—and Justice soon became determined to help Anders. But Justice sought nothing les than full equality for Anders—nothing less than justice for what Anders endured—and was soon swayed deeply by the plight of Southern mages._

_You are aware, of course, that not all mages are treated well in the Circles. Some are abused for no reason beyond existing. Anders is one. Was one. Whichever tense is appropriate—I don’t claim to know. He saw and sees almost nothing redeemable in the Southern Circles, and so, either does Justice. Originally, they wanted reform. Greater freedoms for mages and less fear from the general populace. Not war. But Kirkwall was a bad place for them, especially because of what I will tell you next. Please, please forgive me, Cullen, for saying nothing sooner._

_Anders and Justice merged. Before fleeing from the Wardens to Kirkwall, Anders performed a spell to allow Justice to share his body instead of the stolen Warden’s. By the most basic reckoning, Anders is therefore an abomination, and has been for as long as he’s been here. I told no one, did nothing, because he is not the first coherent abomination I have encountered. I will not tell you who else for their safety, but you should know they helped to fight the darkspawn during the Blight. I might even go so far as to say they were instrumental. So I had experience with this sort of thing: plus, both the cases had benevolent spirits of the Fade, not demons, and this made them different. At least at first, neither was destructive. The first still isn’t._

_Over time, though… Anders’ anger and Justice’s inability to see any room for compromise caused changes. I had considered Justice my friend, you see. He was good. Strange, polarizing, even confusing, but good. As he changed, he became fixated on the issues Southern mages face, grew vitriolic, developed a blind hatred for Templars so extreme that it scared even Anders, who generally shared the sentiment. I believe he may no longer be Justice. Now, he may well be Vengeance._

_It was because of this, in addition to Meredith’s actions and Elthina’s inaction, that Anders did what he did. You know what happened in the years we lived in the city well enough that I will not waste ink repeating them: know now that, just as red lyrium aggravated Meredith’s paranoia, Justice aggravated Anders’. With the two of them in the same city, it was never going to end peacefully. Both are examples of the extremes this quiet war has to offer. Both were confident in their own logic. And, if I may say as much… Even without them, this would have become a full-scale war eventually. Neither was a cause: they are and were symptoms and catalysts._

_Now, Meredith is dead. Anders—I cannot kill him. He is my friend, and besides that, I don’t think Garrett would allow it. But I have a plan: a ritual I have been working on for the last six years. If it goes well—if it works as it’s supposed to—then Justice and Anders will be separate again, and Justice will return to the Fade. It cannot undo what they did or pay for what they have taken, but I hope… I hope it will return them to who they were, to some degree. I hope it can help things heal._

_Ir abelas, Cullen. I kept this from you for selfish reasons, and even now I cannot divulge the entirety. When I see you again, whenever that may be, I swear to you that I will tell you the rest. I will keep no more secrets._

_For now, I can’t tell you where I’m going. Safety’s sake. I have vulnerable people with me who I dare not endanger should my messages be intercepted. But… if you wish to write me, send it to Vigil’s Keep. Address it to Littlefoot. The letter will find its way to me—or I to it. I want no trouble for you; I will not be upset with you for giving any information in this letter to whoever you see fit, nor do I ask that you keep any of it secret. The time for that has ended._

_Dareth shiral, ma falon._

_Vir’era_

_Mia,_

_This letter will be too short. Ir abelas. Ask Cullen for details; he knows enough, though I fear that I have angered him._

_Kirkwall isn’t safe for me anymore. I’m taking my clan and leaving. I can’t tell you more, but if you write a letter for me, address it to Littlefoot and send it to Redcliffe Castle. I’ll get it eventually. I don’t know how long the news will take to travel so far south, or how warped it will become by then, but Kirkwall’s Chantry was destroyed by Anders, and the Gallows mages are now on the run. I believe this is the start of a full war between Templars and mages. How long before it spreads to the other Circles, I don’t know. Be ready. Be wary._

_I can’t tell you where I’m going or what I’m doing. If someone—anyone—asks about me, show them this letter. Be honest with them. Cooperate. I want no trouble to come to you._

_If Sister Nightingale—Leliana—or Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast come and don’t believe you, show them all my letters, however many you still have, and however many I may send in the future (when I am able). Your safety is more important than my desire to remain beyond contact._

_Vir’era_

 

We spent only enough time in the city to gather the necessities. Malia and Garrett bid Leandra farewell; Sandal and Bodahn were told to leave at their leisure; Orana was given the choice to stay with Leandra or go with the dwarves (she chose Leandra). I packed what few items still remained in my room. Most of my bag was filled with the lyrium I had hoarded and hidden away.

We didn’t split up at all. Even Aveline, who I had thought would remain in the city, stayed with us for that first period of confusion. It made things slow going, having everyone along, but the city was still in chaos. Lower chaos, to be sure—there was no more battle in the streets, but there was still panic, still fear. We felt safer together.

We didn’t stay the night in the city. Perhaps we could have, but it felt wrong, and with how things had happened, Anders was in too much danger. We couldn’t stay without risking an attack on him.

As soon as we stopped for the night in one of the Wounded Coast’s many caves, I drew Anders aside. “I can separate you,” I told him. I didn’t need to elaborate.

He didn’t speak at first, instead staring at me in quiet contemplation for a long moment, his eyes dark and shoulders low. Then, molasses-slow, he asked, “How?”

I pulled out my book with the ritual and described it with deliberate, gentle care. I did not hide that I had attempted the same with Marethari and failed; I made no secret that it was experimental and liable to go very wrong. But he deserved to know. He deserved the chance.

The sun had set when I finished speaking and he finished asking. The possibility hung between us, and he traced the lines of my ritual, its circle, its runes. His eyebrows were pulled together, low over his eyes, but his shoulders had raised and his head was angled at a considering tilt.

Finally, finally, he looked back up at me, and there was a flicker in his eyes, something lighting the dark that had clouded them. “Yes” was all he said. It was enough.

I pulled the materials from my bag and began to make my marks as Anders told the others our plan. There wasn’t as much argument as I had anticipated. There was hardly even any anger. Garrett was the most reluctant, followed closely by Malia. “He tried this with Marethari, too!” Garrett shouted. “It didn’t help! We still had to kill her!”

“He wasn’t prepared then,” Anders countered, and I was grateful that he hadn’t been present for Marethari’s death, that he had so much faith in me, however unwarranted. “It’s different this time.”

“I don’t want to sound like I think Vee’s incapable, but if this is even possible, don’t you think someone else would have found a way by now?” Malia asked. Truthfully, it was a question I had wondered before, too; why hadn’t anyone found something like this before? If it was possible to prevent abominations like had been accomplished with both Feynriel and Connor, when the demons were already present in the mage’s mind, why would this be any different? Was there truly such a difference between a demon simply being present and when one became an abomination?

“Studies involving demons have never been approved in the Circles,” Anders said. He was confident. I wanted to be, too. This one had to work. It had to. (But I still wondered what was different from Anders’ situation to Connor’s, and how it could change what I intended to do—if it would even work…)

“What about the Imperium, then?” Garrett asked. “They’re hardly against using blood magic or demons.”

My hand almost faltered on a rune when Fenris spoke in my defense, saying, “While I dislike to be on Anders’ side in an argument, even Tevinter has not spent any significant effort on reversing abominations, merely controlling them.”

Garrett made an animalistic sound of frustration, then, and when next he spoke, his words were the most fragile I had ever heard from him—there-and-gone like smoke. “I can’t lose you, Anders.”

Perhaps it was not my place, but I stood and spoke then. “You won’t. This—it might not go as I want it, but it will not kill him. I will return him to you at the end. Dirthavara.”

He held my gaze, lips a flat, thin line, and we stared in silence. Neither of us backed down until Anders took Garrett’s hand and kissed his fingers; he spoke too quietly for me to make out distinct words, and I returned to my work. This needed to be done: Vengeance could not be allowed to continue wreaking havoc in Anders’ mind. He needed no more blood on his hands, and I would do whatever I could to help.

I was unbothered for the rest of the time I spent preparing.

At last, I poured the final vial lyrium into its place, and turned to Anders. “There’s only one more thing I need,” I said. “Well, two things, if we include you.”

“Will it… Will it be destroyed?” he asked. It was already in his hands, cradled like it was infinitely more fragile than it truly was.

“I don’t know.” I thought back to Connor’s ritual, to Feynriel’s, to how mine would twist them (and others) together. “I don’t think so. But maybe. I can’t say for sure.”

He traced a finger along its surface, then nodded. “Alright.”

With both hands, he passed me the pillow his mother had sewn for him, and with both hands, I accepted it. I placed it gently at the top of the circle and whispered a prayer to Mythal: “Mythal, elvhenamamae… ma halani: elgar paen Andersataren.”

Then, I guided Anders to the center and began to chant.

Even from the start, it was different than with Marethari. This time, as the lyrium lit, it did not go up like bonfires, but rather like a series of torches, starting with the one closest to me and following my runes and lines through until the final pile sparked to life—and then we were in the Fade.

It was just the three of us, and we stood without speaking for a moment. Neither Anders nor Justice was incorporeal, and both stood separately for the first time in far too long—after all, through the entirety of the last six years, I had only been able to speak to one or the other, never both.. Anders looked around, and the scenery changed; now, we stood in a small home. We were still alone, but I could see remnants of a life here: a low-burning fire in the hearth, a well-loved rocking chair, quilts trimmed in familiar material…

“We’re in my mind, aren’t we?” Anders asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “It’s the only place I could see both of you.”

“So you can see what I’m seeing?” When I nodded, he hummed. “This was my home. Before the Circle, I mean. Where I—where I was born. I guess the pillow brought us here. It’s all I have left of this place.”

The home was mostly unremarkable to me, except that its simple furnishings were neither of the more fanciful Orlesian make nor of the simple Ferelden make, but rather of a practical style I had seen but once or twice. It was the Ander style, and was not popular among those who did not live in the Anderfels. After a moment, Anders started to move cautiously through the room. He didn’t touch anything, didn’t so much as breathe too closely, as though any unexpected shift could destroy this place.

I stood in the same place I had arrived. This was not truly mine to see, and was certainly not mine to explore. What would happen next, how we could resolve the problems we faced… It was impossible for me to know. Even my journal, which made mention of so much, had never given me anything to prepare for this.

When I let my attention linger on Justice, I nearly didn’t recognize him. He was—he was _Justice_ again. Not Justice-in-Kristoff’s-body or Justice-in-Anders’-body, but simply, purely Justice. The same spirit I had met so very many years ago in the Fade by the Blackmarsh, as if he were unchanged. I struggled for words; what was I meant to say? This was not what I had expected, was far from what I had even dared to hope.

Had I succeeded?

Justice, apparently sensing my train of thought, turned to face me. With his helmet, I could see very little of his expression, but there was an aura about him—something quintessential to the Fade, a way the subconscious interacts with dreams. He was… morose? regretful? upset?

He lowered himself to one knee, head bowed, and I knew then: he was penitent.

“Justice,” I said, my voice catching on the first syllable and rendering the second into silence; even in the Fade, unreal and adaptable, my emotions defined my voice. Perhaps especially here.

Anders appeared beside me, staring down at Justice’s prone position. Then, he sank down onto his knees, putting himself at the same level as the spirit, though his head was held higher. Much as I knew without telling the precise emotions Justice had, so, too, did I know those within Anders—but where Justice was penitent, even remorseful, Anders…

Anders was regretful, yes. He was not happy; I doubted he would ever delight in what had happened. But he did not rue this, was not contrite. Soon, he spoke, saying to Justice, “It had to be done.”

“There are better ways,” Justice answered. “I was blinded by your mortal world. The innocent need not die for the guilty.”

“Innocents already were.” Anders leaned forward. Justice was not convinced, but Anders was not deterred, and I was forgotten for now, merely a conduit for a conversation. “Nothing else—nothing was working. No one was listening. It had to be done.”

“It was not just.”

“Nothing was.”

Neither moved as they continued to speak, and neither conceded any ground—yet it was not an argument. I would hardly even call it a disagreement, even if it matched such a definition. They were so calm throughout, so straightforward. Was this how it had always been for them?

“We killed people in prayer.”

“Meredith killed children.”

“We gave no warning.”

“We gave every warning.”

“We nearly killed Vir’era.”

“He volunteered to be the final chance.”

I couldn’t let them speak of me like I was not present. “I knew what I was doing,” I said. “I knew the risk.”

Justice turned his eyes to me again. “I know. And yet…”

“He’s safe,” Anders pressed.

“He is,” Justice agreed, and for a moment after this first agreement, there was nothing. Then, he spoke again, his eyes boring through to the essence of who I was. “You would not have been. If Anders had not insisted we wait for the signal, I would have killed you.”

I believed him.

“I would not have cared.”

It was the truth.

“I was not Justice. I was Vengeance.”

Still he said nothing I did not know; it was so unlike him to meander in his words. What did he mean? What did he want? “Speak plainly, please,” I said. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“If we return as we were, I will again be Vengeance. I cannot exist as I am in the mortal world.” He took from his waist a sheathed sword and laid it at my feet. “I cannot accept such a fate. You brought us here to free us; here is the tool you need.”

“Justice…” Anders whispered. We knew what he meant, and I knew, too, that there was no alternative. Like the demon that had preyed on Connor and those that had plagued Feynriel—like the spirit that kept Wynne alive past her time—there was only one way to free them, only one way to ensure their troubles were over.

I joined them in kneeling. My emotions roiled around me, sliding along theirs in a draining slurry of upset. With a trembling voice, I said, “Ir abelas, lethallin.”

“Ma vir’suledin. Ar din’an him, enasal.”

I took up his sword.

 

When I awoke, Connor and a few other mages were at our cave—and with them was Cynthia. “We don’t have anywhere to go,” one said. “We hoped… It wasn’t hard, finding you. We could feel the magic, whatever you were doing. We hoped you might let us come with you. At least for a while. Until… until things are safe again.”

“Myrvaise, was it?” The mage nodded at Garrett’s question. She was an elf, I noticed, but her name sounded more Orlesian than elven. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but even we don’t know what we’re doing. We just had to leave. Anders—he can’t stay there, and I won’t let him leave without me, and everyone else… It might not be safe for them. They knew us too well. You didn’t. You’ll be in more danger with us than on your own.”

“Please,” she said. “Just for a while. If—if you go south, we’ll part in Orlais or Ferelden. I’m sure we can figure things out from there. But we can’t stay here, and I… none of us… We wanted freedom, yes, but we weren’t…”

“None of us were ever active in the Circle’s politics,” Connor said, joining Myrvaise. “And I thought—Cynthia and I thought that maybe Vir’era could help us.”

“He’s asleep. The magic that you followed here? That was him. I don’t know if it’s safe to wake him.” Garrett didn’t even glance back at me, but I slowly pushed myself up. I hadn’t been moved from where I’d cast my spell. Neither had Anders, when I looked to where I’d seen him last. He was still sleeping, though.

“I’m awake, Garrett,” I announced. My voice felt altogether too close and unfamiliar, a stranger’s larynx in place of my own. I shook my head and cleared my throat as I stood, and the small group (there couldn’t be more than five) all turned to look at me. “You said you want to travel with us?”

“Please,” said Connor. “I know it’s rude to invite oneself along, but we need the help. None of the other mages…” He sighed. “Some are leaving to return to other Circles, but I-I—they wouldn’t let me come with, because I knew you, and Myrvaise and the others, they don’t want to be in the Circle anymore anyway, and Cynthia…” He paused and turned to her.

Cynthia had come a long way from the little girl so frightened of magic in our Darktown clinic. “I couldn’t let you go alone, but I didn’t know how to find you. I tried asking the Templar Knight-Captain, but none of the others would let me speak to him, and none of the Sisters or Mothers knew. I overheard Connor mention you, and that was that.”

“What about your father?” I asked.

She glanced at Anders, still sleeping in the circle, then looked at me again, her weight shifting back and forth. “He—we were at the Chantry together. I-I-I… I couldn’t find him.”

He was dead, then. I closed the small distance remaining between us and pulled her into a hug. “Ir abelas, da’len.” I wanted to say I should have been quicker, but this was not about me and my failures: it was about Cynthia and her tragedy. It would not do to turn the conversation to myself. “He was a good man.”

Cynthia’s arms wrapped around me, and she leaned down to press her face to my shoulder. It was not easy; she was taller than me by at least half a head. She did not sob, but I knew she was crying, and I let her hide her sadness. “I cannot speak for the Champions or my other friends, but I must return to my clan. We must leave with all haste; I would welcome you to travel with us for a time, though you will need to be very careful, and there will be some strict rules for the safety of all involved.”

I didn’t even know what Garrett and Malia intended to do, where they hoped to go. If they’d had any thought to keep everyone together, they would be disappointed. I could not afford to leave my clan to stay with them, and my clan could not afford the high profile that traveling with so many humans would cause. Taking even these few mages and Cynthia would be risky enough, and they were not the type to cause trouble or attract undue attention.

And Connor and Myrvaise did accept my conditions, without even questioning too much. They were all young: Myrvaise was the oldest, and she didn’t look to be more than perhaps twenty. The youngest was a mere child—and, as it so happened, was Myrvaise’s sister. I don’t think they were really old enough, as a whole, to think about negotiating any stipulations before learning them. But, then again, perhaps they were just desperate.

We sat down, all of us, to prepare a simple meal while we waited for Anders to wake up. The mages had brought a bit of fruit from the Gallows’ kitchen. As everyone spoke quietly, Garrett put a hand to my arm. “Will he be alright?”

I looked at Anders, who slept now more peacefully than I had ever seen. I wondered what was happening in his mind now; it was healing itself, surely, from whatever effects were caused by severing the bond he’d had with Justice. By killing Justice. “As much as he can be,” I answered. “We… I had to…”

All eyes were on me, now. Everyone was hyperaware, I think, of any mention of Anders, even if his name was not uttered. “It worked,” I said, the words pulling from my mouth like taffy. I had succeeded, after all. I had finally figured it out.

“Then what is wrong?” Sebastian asked.

I looked away from Anders and stared instead at Sebastian. “When we entered the Fade, they were separate again, for the first time since—since before we came to Kirkwall. And Justice—he was… he was _Justice_ again. Not Vengeance, not a mockery of what he was meant to be.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Isabela asked. “You did say Justice was your friend, way back when. However that works.”

“I had to kill him.”

Garrett whirled on me with the force of a tornado, though he did not so much as touch a strand of my hair. “Justice.”

“Yes.”

He relaxed somewhat, but looked then to Anders and back to me. For a moment, the fiery fury he’d almost held crumpled into palpable relief, and then… Something in the room, silent and unseen, broke apart, and sympathetic reactions dominoed through the room. It cascaded with unexpected force, pushing into my chest and leaving me short of breath.

I had killed my friend.

I remembered doing it. I was fully aware of all my actions. I had done it to save my other friend—Creators, he had even asked it of me! There was no red on my fingers, no sword in my hands, but there was blood all the same, invisible and intangible and undeniable. First Marethari, now Justice. My shortsightedness had killed them both.

Tears spilled over my cheeks, but I could not make myself move, not even to hide them or wipe them away. I stared helplessly at the ground instead and cried. When Malia sat beside me and pulled me to lean on her, I did not protest; Garrett squeezed my hand and went to sit with Anders (to be there when he woke up, I thought), and Merrill took his place, wrapping her arm around my waist.

As Peaches put her head in my lap with a loud, empathetic sigh, I gave in to the comfort of my friends.

 

Later, after Anders had woken and the meal had been eaten, when we all were more emotionally stable, we considered what was to be done. Somehow, I helped to lead the discussion, while Anders simply looked on.

“My clan needs to leave Kirkwall with all haste,” I said; our immediate intent was to have everyone head to Clan Sabrae’s camp. From there, though, we were at a crossroads. “Isabela, I know it’s not an ideal time or situation, but do you think you could gain access to that ship? Would it be possible for you to take us across the Waking Sea now?”

“Well, theoretically, yes, but I’m not so sure it’ll be that easy,” she hedged. “I’m hardly an unfamiliar face at the docks, and they’ll likely be looking for me.”

“They’ll expect us to take a ship, anyhow,” Garrett said, gesturing in Isabela’s direction.

I wanted to argue that staying in the Free Marches was a terrible, terrible idea, but Aveline cut me off. “He’s right, Vir’era. Everyone knows that half of us are Fereldan. They might look around Kirkwall a bit, but they’ll be looking more closely at any ships heading south.”

Sebastian leaned in. “So we’ll head to Starkhaven. They don’t have a Circle anymore, so no one would expect to find Anders there.”

“You haven’t exactly kept quiet that you’re a Starkhaven Prince, your Highness,” Malia drawled. “I’m pretty sure someone would look for us there.”

“Not if I go there alone, they won’t,” he said.

Garrett huffed, but I waved off whatever comment he had brewing. “No, Sebastian has a point. If he leaves in the morning for Starkhaven and claims he wishes to claim his inheritance as Prince, and makes mention of a schism because of our support for Anders…”

“I still don’t agree with what he—they did. It was not right. I will not have to pretend to be angry about that,” Sebastian said. “But I cannae just leave you to fend for yourselves.”

“You won’t. We can’t stay in the Free Marches long—just until Isabela can safely fetch her ship. But with you reclaiming the Starkhaven throne…” I outlined a rough idea, and with the aid of my friends, we made it more solid. Sebastian would return home in fury, ascending to the Starkhaven throne and causing enough ruckus about that and an imagined (yet not impossible) fight with us that none would suspect we might follow.

We would, of course. Most of us, at least. Aveline was reluctant to leave us, but to have her remain as Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain was too beneficial to allow her to give it up. Besides, she loved the job, and she had worked so hard to get where she was. We appreciated that she loved us more, or at least enough to be willing to burn bridges, but it was where she belonged. She could keep better watch on any searches for us from there.

He would prepare various places outside the city proper for refugees from Kirkwall, which was a sound enough action anyhow. Most of us would find one of these and settle in, with Myrvaise and Connor acting as the faces. My clan and I would be nearby.

Isabela and Varric would work their contacts to get her ship to Starkhaven. She hadn’t even done more than sign some papers to declare it hers, so it was not yet heavily associated with her, and a staged heist would be enough to recover it. Starkhaven ports weren’t so familiar with her face, so as long as the people accompanying her looked ordinary enough, she could begin the preparations to leave in the city. They estimated a month to recover the ship and another two weeks after to gather supplies and any other crew needed.

Meanwhile, I would send word to as many of the local clans as I could. If I could gather more halla in the process, even just one or two, it would be wonderful, but the intent was solely to give warning. Templars would be even more fierce, and while an unsteady near-truce did allow Dalish mages to exist mostly peacefully outside the Circle, I could not guarantee that it would remain so. I doubted the Templars would find it harmless.

Once Isabela had her ship ready to go, we would all board it. Hopefully, the sight of my clan as we took our places on the ship would be distracting enough to keep anyone from noticing the Hawkes and company. After all, Dalish were not often seen so near any shemlen settlement, let alone actually booking passage through a port.

Isabela would take us to Orlais, where my clan and I would depart. Connor and his group would leave then, too, but would meet my clan away from public spaces, so that we would not be targeted any more than we already were. From there, Isabela would take everyone else to Antiva, to an inn that both Isabela and Fenris knew of, which was apparently frequented by many who wished to be lost.

From there, it was a tossup. Anders made mention of returning to the Anderfels for a time, and Isabela began reminiscing about her pirating days. Only one thing was certain: if they went to Ferelden at all, it would not be a direct route. I was given vague promises that they would all write me and keep me updated, but even months beforehand, I knew it would be far from easy, especially since I would also be on the move.

For our part, my clan would head first to Dirthavaren. We would find any clans we could and continue to give the news. We would find more halla, as the Dales had many. Most importantly, though: we would attend the Arlathvhen. It was due in 9:38 Dragon.

And all throughout, I would send letters. I had contacts, too, after all.


	45. epilogue: some things you see with your eyes. others, you see with your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special shout out to anyone who recognizes where the chapter title is coming from or otherwise could predict where this was going

I went to Littlefoot’s tree to say goodbye. Once I left, it would be years before I could return—if I even chose to.

Master Ilen was waiting for me. He was paying his own respects to the grave; though it was still a sapling, it was beautiful. As I approached, he turned and smiled. “I knew you would come here soon,” he said. “And I thought there would be no better place to give you your staff.”

My chest felt lighter. “You finished it?” Though he had begun the work weeks ago, he had asked for my patience, as he wanted it to be perfect. I hadn’t forgotten about it, but neither had I asked after his progress.

“Indeed.” He reached to the far side of Littlefoot’s tree and brought forth the staff, holding it out to me with the slightest inclination of his head. “June ar ghilana; Ghilan’nain ma ghilana. Littlefoot, Ghilan’nain’enansal… sahlin din’an him, sahlin tel’ghilas: sahlin Littlefoot ma ghilana.”

The staff was breathtaking.

Maleficent was beautiful, too, was gorgeous in a striking way, in one that brooked no questions. This staff… It felt like coming home after years away.

It was, of course, made of dahlamythal, as all Keepers’ staves are. Master Ilen had a very discerning eye for the perfect branch, and like Marethari’s staff, this one was undeniably natural. Though most had been carefully carved and sanded to a beautiful, smooth finish, a significant piece of the top had been allowed to retain a more wild appearance.

Not entirely wild, though. He had used his knowledge, his utter perfection of his craft, to bend the wild branch that it would close securely and sweetly around the centerpiece of this staff, keeping it in place and displaying it simultaneously.

Maleficent had her stormheart dragon and the piece of solid lyrium, both showy and undeniably magical, things which paid some tribute to the effort I had made to help stop the Fifth Blight. They were eye-catching, otherworldly, and absolutely evoked images of the reasons the people of southern Thedas feared magic.

This staff, though… It was far more personal. It was made not in honor of my deeds or as tribute to an idea I might represent. This staff was _me_ , was unmistakably made for my hand, from the wedge-shaped blade mounted to one side at the base, to the smooth shaft wrapped carefully in wolfskin leather, to the very top, its crowning jewel, the reason I was not reluctant to accept:

_Littlefoot._

It was not all of him. Mabari are far too large for such. And Ilen had asked me, weeks ago, if it would be acceptable—if it would be appropriate. Some might think it desecration of a grave. I thought it beautiful: he would be with me forever, now, in spirit and in truth. At the top of this staff, cradled in the dahlamythal’s branch, was Littlefoot’s skull.

Perhaps it was a bit morbid. I couldn’t find it in me to care. To me, it was beautiful; to me, it was _right[_. Littlefoot was dead, yes, but I had never forgotten him. I never would. I would have hated to leave him here on this mountain, so far from where I would be, so out of reach.

Now I didn’t have to. He could come with me, guide and guard me as he always had done.

The bones in my hands trembled as I reached out and took hold of the staff. A strange sense of living warmth spread from my fingers and palms through my entire being, the selfsame sense as achieved when Anders cast particularly powerful healing spells. It was comfort incarnate, and there was just the barest phantom press of pure devotion, of love and delight and warm, snuggly evenings—

_Littlefoot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it for Kirkwall! i hope you've enjoyed the ride and that you'll stick around for Keeper, coming soon!
> 
> minor announcement re:Keeper--the chapters will be, generally speaking, much shorter. it will cover the time from where we've ended (roughly) through til round about the start of canon inquisition. i'll be using a somewhat different style, as there is no intense story to tell through these years. they're important enough not to skip, but not important enough to garner Full Balls-Deep Detailing, so expect mostly vignette-style stuff and lots of letters. i'll try to update more often to make up for that, though i've obviously more or less abandoned having any regular update day.
> 
> not sure how long Keeper will be in terms of chapters, but i'm anticipating about ten? possibly as many as fifteen. we'll see!
> 
> elvish translation (non-canon/frankensteined by me)-  
>  _June ar ghilana; Ghilan’nain ma ghilana. Littlefoot, Ghilan’nain’enansal… sahlin din’an him, sahlin tel’ghilas: sahlin Littlefoot ma ghilana._ \- June guides me; Ghilan'nain guides you. Littlefoot, Ghilan'nain's blessing... though now he is dead, he is not gone: now Littlefoot guides you.


End file.
